Beloved Poison (27 page)

‘Your husband carried you out. Tried to bundle you into the carriage but you escaped.’

‘He wanted me dead,’ she said. ‘Dr Graves was with him, in the carriage. Did you see him?’

I shook my head. I had seen only the outline of the carriage, the blinds drawn, and Mrs Catchpole’s petticoats, her legs waving wildly as she struggled.

‘I pretended I had fainted,’ she said. ‘When he relaxed his grip, I struggled free.’

‘And you ran,’ I said. ‘You ran away from them.’

‘He followed, of course, and the carriage came after. But I ran too fast. There was fog. They couldn’t see me. I had no idea where I was and I took a wrong turn. I don’t know how long I wandered, but I was cold, so very cold. And then,’ she smiled. ‘All at once there were the gates to St Saviour’s, and the light from the apothecary window visible inside beneath the archway. I went down the street to his house and looked through the window.’

‘The shutters were closed,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I could see through a crack between the boards, and there they were!’

‘Who did you see?’ I held my breath. ‘Who?’

Mrs Catchpole’s eyes were fixed upon the door. ‘Is someone there?’ she whispered. ‘Someone outside in the corridor?’

I looked up. The door was open, and the lamplit gallery outside was visible. Shadows moved against the wall, but no one passed by. Other than the attendant who had brought me, there was no one there.

‘I thought I saw—’ a frown creased her brow. She produced a silk handkerchief and dabbed at her lips. ‘I seem to see him everywhere.’

‘Dr Bain?’

‘My husband. Dr Magorian. Dr Graves.’

‘You saw your husband,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you? You saw him at Dr Bain’s house.’

She nodded. ‘He was crouched over Dr Bain. Dr Bain was in a chair before the fire.’

Her voice was faint, as if she were reluctant to talk about it, but I pressed on anyway. ‘And did you see anyone else there? Did you see anything unusual? Anything out of place?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It was always a mess in there.’

‘Always?’ I said. ‘Have you been in Dr Bain’s house before?’

Mrs Catchpole sighed. ‘I suppose it hardly matters now,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’d been there before. I’d followed him too. I knew he went to that horrid house in Wicke Street. They all go there. That’s why I knew where to find him.’

‘And there was nothing different about the room the evening Dr Bain died?’

‘Only—’ Mrs Catchpole frowned. ‘Only the screen. It was usually folded back, but it had been opened.’

‘The screen?’ I said. It had been folded when Will and Dr Bain and I were there. And it had still been folded when we found the doctor, dead. But Mrs Catchpole had seen it
un
folded.

She shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t think it means anything.’

‘It means that there was someone else there, Mrs Catchpole,’ I said. ‘Someone who didn’t want your husband to see them. Perhaps if you close your eyes and try to visualise the room, visualise what you saw—’

‘But it was the same as ever.’

‘No!’ I said. ‘No, it wasn’t! Come, Mrs Catchpole. Close your eyes and think of the room.’

She withdrew her hand from mine, and covered her eyes. ‘But I can only think of him. I can only see him, slumped in that chair, his book in his lap. I thought he must have been reading and had fallen asleep, that my husband was about to wake him—’

‘A book?’ I said. ‘He had a book in his lap?’

‘Yes, I saw it slip to the ground.’

‘What kind of book?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

I nodded. Dr Bain had lots of books. It might have been any one of those that was in his lap – and yet, when we found him there was no book beside the body – no book on the floor, or nearby. What book was it? It was clear to me that Dr Catchpole had disturbed the murderer. Was Dr Bain dead, or dying when Dr Catchpole stood over him? Had Dr Catchpole taken the book? I resolved to ask him myself.

I sensed a movement behind me. Mrs Catchpole saw it too and she rose to her feet, her hands flying to her face. ‘He is here!’ The jar of salve fell from her lap and rolled across the carpet.

But it was not Dr Catchpole. It was Mrs Magorian and Eliza. I was always glad to see Eliza, but at that moment I felt a flutter of irritation. Confound the lady almoners and their Bible readings! Could they not just go home and sit still?

Mrs Magorian fluttered forward. ‘My dear Mrs Catchpole, please forgive us for coming so late. But I said we would visit you every day until you were better, did I not? We would not desert a friend in her moment of need.’ She picked up the salve. ‘What’s this?’

‘Salve,’ I replied.

‘Oh, how kind,’ she said. ‘How
very
kind of you, Mr Flockhart.’ She put it on the washstand beside the soap I had brought.

Eliza smiled at me. ‘Hello, Mr Flockhart,’ she said. She had regained her complexion and curled her hair. I could not take my eyes from her.

‘I have brought you a Bible, Mrs Catchpole,’ said Mrs Magorian. ‘And a bunch of chrysanthemums – Eliza, my dear, put those in some water.’ She pulled up a chair and sat down at Mrs Catchpole’s side. ‘Perhaps if I were to read one of the psalms, to calm your raging spirits before bed?’ She flipped it open. ‘“
Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful”,
’ she began.

At that moment there was a scuffling sound out in the passageway. We heard voices raised, and all at once Dr Catchpole burst in. ‘Annabel!’ he cried. ‘Why will you not see me?’

Mrs Catchpole sprang to her feet. ‘You!’ she cried. ‘You killed him!’

‘No!’ Dr Catchpole fell to his knees in the middle of the carpet. ‘No, I swear it.’ Dr Graves stood behind him, his smile ghastly in the lamplight.

‘Ladies,’ he said, bowing. ‘Miss Magorian.’ Eliza backed away. Dr Graves stepped closer. ‘What lovely flowers,’ he said. The chrysanthemums Eliza was holding were dark red shot with yellow – the colours of blood and bile. They were the lady almoners’ usual choice, and I could not see that there was anything beautiful about them. Dr Graves made a show of plucking one, and placing it in his button hole. ‘That I may think of you,’ he said to Eliza.

‘Gentlemen,’ I cried. ‘Dr Hawkins asked you not to visit. Not until Mrs Catchpole is more settled.’ All at once the room was crowded with people and ringing with voices.

‘“
And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither”
,’ cried Mrs Magorian.

Dr Catchpole shuffled towards his wife, his hands together in supplication. He had aged, even since I had seen him in the apothecary that afternoon, and his face was as drawn and sunken as a corpse’s. His nostrils, brown with snuff, were the only marks of colour in his face. I caught a whiff of spirits from him as he inched forward. Was he drunk? I looked at Dr Graves. He appeared to be quite sober. He affected to sniff his button hole whilst leering at Eliza.

‘Come home, my darling,’ cried Dr Catchpole.

‘Get away from me!’ screamed his wife.

The attendant who had brought me downstairs reappeared, drawn, no doubt, by the din. He grinned, and pulled a lever at the side of the fireplace – I assumed it would summon assistance. I had expected him to wrestle Dr Catchpole out of the room, but he appeared to be enjoying the spectacle, and he did nothing more.

Dr Catchpole was now on his knees at his wife’s feet. She scrambled onto her chair so that he would not touch her skirts but he lunged forward with a sob and seized her foot. Mrs Catchpole’s arms windmilled as she tried to stay upright. She kicked out at her husband, the point of her shoe causing his spectacles to come loose and swing down across his face. Mrs Magorian, still sitting beside Mrs Catchpole with the Bible open in her lap, froze in her chair as Dr Catchpole grovelled before her. Eliza looked on, ignoring the glances of Dr Graves, her expression almost gleeful at the sudden uproar.

Two orderlies burst in. They seized Dr Catchpole by the arms and manhandled him back towards the door. ‘Annabel!’ he cried. At first he resisted, struggling to escape and come back into the room. And then all at once he sagged between his captors, as if his limbs had turned to liquid. ‘You are my wife,’ he sobbed. ‘You cannot leave me.’ The orderlies hauled him away down the corridor.

I dashed out after them. ‘This gentleman is one of St Saviour’s most respected physicians,’ I cried. ‘You will treat him with respect.’

The orderlies stopped. Dr Catchpole dangled hopelessly between them, his spectacles awry, his face wet with snot and tears. ‘Let him go,’ I said. ‘He won’t give you any trouble now.’

Dr Catchpole sank down onto one of the numerous chairs that were bolted to the floor at intervals along the corridor. He put his head in his hands. I crouched before him. I knew I would not get the chance again. ‘Dr Catchpole,’ I said. ‘I know you went to see Dr Bain the night he died.’

He clenched his fists on either side of his head. For a moment I thought he was going to assault me, but he did not move.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ said Dr Catchpole. His voice was low and furious, so that I had to lean in close to catch his words. ‘I only went there to speak with him. To reason with him.’

‘And he would not listen?’

‘He would not answer the door!’ Dr Catchpole sat up, his face furious. ‘I knew he was in,’ he said. ‘I could see the light. I could see a shadow moving. So I went around the back. The kitchen door was unlocked.’ He sighed, and sagged once more. ‘I went through and I found him in his chair.’

‘Was he dead?’

‘He was not.’

‘So what did you do?’

Dr Catchpole smiled. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft. ‘I did nothing.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he folded it and slipped it back into his pocket. I could see he had mastered himself completely. He stared at me over the rims of his spectacles, his eyes cold and hard and blue. ‘I did nothing,’ he repeated. ‘I found him in his chair before the fire. I saw he was not long for the world. He tried to stand up, but I pushed him back. I watched him for a little, perhaps five minutes? I could not tear my eyes from him. I wanted to see his pain, his impotence, his fear.’ His voice was scalpel-sharp. ‘And then I left. I would not help him. Even if I had known how to, I would still have left him there.’ He laughed. ‘D’you know, he slid onto his knees before me, as if begging for my forgiveness. But I would not forgive. I was glad to see him suffer. There was nothing I could do; nothing I
would
do.’ He shrugged. ‘He fell forward onto the hearth rug, and there I left him.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

‘Did you take the book?’

Dr Catchpole frowned. ‘What book?’

‘The book he was reading.’

‘I didn’t go there to borrow Dr Bain’s books, Mr Flockhart.’

‘And the poison. Was it bloodroot?’

‘Dr Graves says so. I hardly care. I only know that I left him there, gasping for breath, unable to move a muscle to save himself. There was no dignity for him, just as he accorded me none.’ He stood up, and brushed a fleck of lint off his sleeve. ‘And if I could relive that evening, I would do exactly the same thing again.’

Dr Graves appeared at Dr Catchpole’s elbow and steered him away down the hall. Some minutes later, after doing their best to calm Mrs Catchpole (but merely, in my view, inflaming the woman further), Mrs Magorian and Eliza left too. On her own at last, Mrs Catchpole paced her room. She refused camomile, laudanum, any sedative at all. I could see that rest, and quietude, would serve her best, and I abandoned her to the care of her attendant – a pinch-faced woman with hard bony hands. I felt uneasy about leaving her, though I could not say why. But Dr Hawkins and my father would be waiting and I could stay with her no longer.

The attendant and I walked back along the carpeted corridor. ‘I’m surprised to see that she doesn’t want to rest.’

‘She’s always up,’ he replied. His face was expressionless. Above his white slab-like cheeks, his eyes shifted. ‘But not as late as some of them. Them what never sleeps.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ My voice was sharp. ‘You have patients who never sleep?’

‘One of ’em, at any rate.
Never
sleeps.’ The attendant was old – perhaps sixty years – a relic from the days when Angel Meadow Asylum was a place where one might come to gawp and jeer at the mad. I knew what he was going to say next. ‘Want to see him?’

I could not look at the man. I felt suddenly breathless and anxious and my heart was thumping. The smell from his leather apron nauseated me and my guts squirmed. No doubt he was merely being fanciful, exaggerating to impress me. A man who never slept? Surely that was not possible. I should not pander to the fellow, I thought. My father was waiting. My father. ‘Show me,’ I said.

The attendant reached, unlocked a door. I followed him down a flight of uncarpeted stairs. ‘The basement is where we keeps some of the bad cases. The ones what can’t be cured, or what upsets the others.’

‘And the one who never sleeps?’

‘Down here.’ He did not meet my gaze. ‘God save us all from such a fate.’