Beloved Poison (15 page)

‘What for?’

‘To eat. You don’t want a child, do you?’

A smile ticked at the corners of her mouth. ‘Carrots don’t stop babies.’ She spoke slowly, as if talking to an idiot.

‘Not
carrots
,’ I said irritably. ‘Wild carrot seeds. They can prevent conception. I’m assuming you’d rather not ply your trade with a baby at your breast?’

She held up her hands and gestured about her at the lurid wallpaper, the ghastly prints – copies of those downstairs in the parlour – the greasy-looking bed sagging in the centre of the room like a foundering ship. Her smile had vanished. ‘Bring a child into this? No, sir. Not ever.’

‘Well then. I’ll give you the seeds, and you must chew them well. You must make up the rest of the ingredients into a wash and keep it beneath your bed. Use it after every man.’

‘An’ how much will all this cost?’ she said. ‘Mrs Roseplucker ain’t
that
gen’rous. Got to pay for the room an’ the sheets bein’ washed and keep myself nice for me gentlemen.’

‘Well, you won’t be making Mrs Roseplucker any money at all if your face is eaten away with the pox,’ I said. ‘Come to the apothecary, St Saviour’s Apothecary, and I’ll give you the stuff myself.’ I wondered what my father would say if he found that I was inviting prostitutes to the place and handing out prophylactics for free. I sighed. Why was I bothering? There were so many of them, Mrs Magorian never tired of telling me, so many girls who had ‘fallen’. It was a hopeless situation.

‘Is there no other work you could do?’ I said gently. I knew the answer already.

‘What? Like bein’ stuck in a fact’ry, or spending all day workin’ me fingers raw stitchin’ up gowns for rich ladies?’ She snorted. ‘There’s not much leisure in
that
, and less money too.’

‘I suppose so,’ I said. The girls in the foul ward said the same, even as they spat a tooth, and a mouthful of blackened saliva, into the ward privy. What choice did they have? Virtue was a useless ideal, and those who espoused it would never be obliged to trade theirs in.

The girl grinned up at me. How young she was. Little more than a child, really. ‘You’re nice,’ she said. ‘You’re not like most of ’em. But you’re almost out o’ time. D’you want a go? Take it slow, like. No extra charge.’

I shook my head.

‘No?’ she looked surprised. ‘But you must want somethin’.’ And then, almost to herself: ‘They always want
somethin’
.’ She frowned, as though suddenly afraid she was being gulled into trustfulness prior to some monstrous violation. ‘Who are you anyway?’ she cried, rearing up before me on the bed.

‘Me?’ I laughed, and slipped my coat back on. ‘You’d never believe it.’

At that moment there came a great banging from downstairs. I listened. I recognised that voice. Surely it wasn’t—

‘Thank you for your time, miss. And don’t forget to come for your herbs.’ I flung open the door and burst out onto the landing.

A familiar figure was standing at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were red rimmed; her hair and dress beaded with moisture from the fog. She looked about, staring at one door, and then another as though hoping she might see through them. Most unexpected of all, however, was the fact that in her hand she carried a heavy stick. I recognised it as the same stick Dr Catchpole had used earlier in the day to beat Dr Bain over the head. As I appeared before her she flinched and raised it as if to strike me too. Her expression was wild, and despite my singular appearance – there was no one else in London who looked quite the way I did – it was clear that, for a moment at least, she had no idea who I was.

Behind her, at the foot of the stairs, a commotion had broken out. I peeked past. Mr Jobber was stretched out before the front door like some monstrous draught excluder. He appeared to be quite insensible. I could hardly believe it – had the gigantic Mr Jobber been felled by the diminutive Mrs Catchpole? Mrs Roseplucker was crouched over Mr Jobber’s recumbent body, jabbering incoherently through her loose crimson lips, and fanning his face with her dog-eared copy of
Crimes of Old London
.

‘What did you do to him?’ I whispered.

‘Who? That fat man?’ Mrs Catchpole frowned. ‘He wouldn’t let me in. Said I had no business here. So I struck him on the jaw with my husband’s cudgel. Down he went.’ Mrs Catchpole giggled. ‘
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again
.’ She turned her empty blue eyes upon me, her expression suddenly appalled. ‘What place is this?’ she cried. ‘Is he here? Is Dr Bain here? You are keeping him against his will, he’d never come to a place like this himself. James!’ she cried suddenly. ‘James!’

‘You know exactly what sort of a place this is, madam,’ I said. ‘And you know that Dr Bain it quite capable of making his way here without my help.’

‘And where is he? I know he’s here somewhere. I followed him. I followed you all!’

‘Dr Bain is behind one of these doors,’ I said. I wondered whether to add the word ‘fornicating’ but decided against it. Instead, I said ‘Mrs Catchpole, are you sure you want to see him now?’

Mrs Catchpole crept closer. She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘He loves me,’ she whispered. She giggled once more and her fingers flew to her mouth, as if she were a child who has uttered a secret. ‘He’s going to take me away with him. Somewhere far away. I have packed my trunk. It’s downstairs.’ She stared down at her arms in surprise. ‘Where’s my coat?’ She frowned. ‘Did I leave it at home?’

Downstairs I could hear shouting now. Mr Jobber had regained consciousness and was rising to his feet. Mrs Catchpole looked behind her as, goaded onwards by a jabbering Mrs Roseplucker, the gigantic Jobber began mounting the stairs. His breath gusted in and out like a labouring steam locomotive. Suddenly, there came the sound of something being thrown violently at the front door. The entire house seemed to shake beneath the blows, until all at once the door burst open. Outlined against the fog was a tall thin figure with a frothing white neckerchief. Dr Catchpole stalked into the house. He pushed past Mrs Roseplucker, and Mr Jobber, and bounded up the stairs.

‘Annabel,’ he said, approaching his wife. ‘Come home, my dear.’

‘You!’ Mrs Catchpole swiped her stick through the air. Her husband neatly side-stepped her (somehow managing to avoid falling back down the stairs) and seized her wrist. In a moment he had removed the stick. He tossed it aside, swept her up into his arms and began to carry her back down towards the open front door.

‘Get out of my way, you fool,’ he cried to Mr Jobber. There was a moment of burlesque upon the stairs, as Mr Jobber attempted the impossible and tried to flatten himself against the wall to allow Dr Catchpole to pass. Mrs Catchpole’s shoe became caught on Mr Jobber’s waistcoat and her head banged against the wall. Dr Catchpole swayed upon the stairs. There was a great creaking of aged treads and the banister groaned. One of the pornographic prints was swept aside by Mr Jobber’s massive shoulder, and sent crashing down the stairs. And all the while Mrs Catchpole was talking and talking, how much Dr Bain loved her, how they would go away together, how she had packed her trunk . . .

The front door banged, and there was silence.

T
he morning was fair – clear and bright with a stiff breeze blowing. It came from the east, gathering with it the stench of the vinegar works and the brewery, though the yeasty acidic reek was better than what usually passed as fresh air. The sunlight streamed in through the apothecary windows. My father seemed stronger. I had made him drink plenty of water, and had dosed him with iron tonic. He was at the work bench, seated (his only concession to poor health) with the pestle and mortar before him. Mrs Speedicut was sitting beside the stove, her mug of coffee in her hand.

‘Out late were you, Mr Jem?’ she said.

‘Where’s Will? I mean Mr Quartermain?’

‘Oh, “Will”, is it?’ said Mrs Speedicut. ‘Very familiar, aren’t we? Very friendly with one o’ them what’s going to raze us to the ground.’

‘It’s not his idea, Mrs Speedicut,’ I said. How tedious she was.

‘He’s gone out,’ said my father. ‘Said he had something he wanted to speak to Dr Bain about, but Dr Bain’s not usually in today.’ He shrugged. ‘He went out anyway.’

‘Did he?’ I said. I wondered what was on Will’s mind. Last night, after we left Mrs Roseplucker’s, he had been very quiet. He had not spoken all the way back to St Saviour’s, and then had got into bed with barely a word. Despite my original resentment about him sleeping in my room, I had to confess to being rather disappointed. Had he not wanted to go over the events of the day? What we had found in the coffins? The dramatic appearance of Mrs Catchpole at the brothel? I had scrambled down the stairs and thrown open Mrs Roseplucker’s door just in time to see Dr Catchpole trying to stuff his wife into a carriage. But she had twisted out of his grasp and bounded off into the fog. Where had she gone? Had she been located? Where was she now? I found I was excited to be sharing, and had pushed back the screen in order to facilitate the anticipated whispered conversation. But Will had turned his face to the wall and said nothing.

‘I see Mrs Catchpole’s been taken to Angel Meadow Asylum,’ remarked Mrs Speedicut, as if reading my mind.

‘What?’ I gaped. ‘But I—’

‘Saw her meself this morning.’ Mrs Speedicut shook her head, and rammed a wad of baccy into her pipe. ‘Could hardly believe it. Her face at the window of that carriage, all wild and bloated, and her hair all over the place, and the screaming and crying and Dr Catchpole trying to keep her calm. They were driving that fast—’

‘Perhaps you were mistaken,’ I said. ‘If they went by so fast. Perhaps it was someone else—’

She looked at me strangely then. ‘I know who I saw.’

‘I’m afraid it’s true, Jem,’ said my father. ‘Dr Hawkins was in earlier. He confirmed it.’

‘Course it’s true,’ said Mrs Speedicut. ‘And you know who’s to blame, don’t you?’ She clamped her jaws about her pipe and drew in a cloud of smoke. The bowl gurgled. ‘The truth will out,’ she muttered. ‘Sooner or later. And
then
you’ll see.’

When I came back from the morning ward rounds Will was still not back. My father was still at his work bench, the leech tank and a series of glass jars before him. ‘Can’t you stop, Father, even for a minute?’ I asked.

‘No.’ He looked up at me over the rim of his glasses, a pair of leech tongs in his hand. ‘Gabriel has vanished. Have you seen him?’

‘Not since yesterday,’ I said.

‘Hm.’ He watched me for a moment. ‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘Are you? Did you sleep?’ His voice was sharp.

‘I have no trouble sleeping, Father,’ I replied, though, truth be told, I had had a restless night. ‘What was my mother like?’ I said suddenly. ‘You never speak of her.’

My father stared at me for a moment. ‘She was nothing like you, you may be sure of that.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know that.’

He plucked a leech from the tank and plopped it into a glass jar. ‘Then why did you ask?’

I cleared my throat. Should I tell him that I had found her name, and the date of my birth, written inside a model of a coffin? Should I say that I feared he might die, and then the only person who knew her, the only person who could tell me who she was, would be gone and I would never know? I shrugged, feeling my father’s gaze resting upon me. Should I ask how she died? Whether she had known she’d had a daughter? I had so many questions, and yet I had never asked them. I felt the blood beating in my face. Before me, my father seized another leech. It writhed, black and shining in the sunlight, caught between the dull metal tips of the tongs.

Once, some years ago, I had crept into my father’s room. The bed he had shared with my mother, the bed I had been born in, was against one wall. He had few clothes, other than a weakness for silk neck ties, and there was little else there but a marble-topped washstand set out with soap and razor, ewer and basin; a chest of drawers and a tall mahogany-framed dressing mirror. Beneath the window was an oak trunk. Inside it, folded neatly on a bed of lavender, was a dress. It was made of a heavy cotton fabric, olive green in colour, sprigged with cream and red and flecks of blue. In the drab, comfortless walls of my father’s room the colours of that dress had glowed like springtime. It had belonged to my mother; the only thing of hers that he’d kept. Her locket, and wedding ring, had been buried with her.