Beloved Poison (34 page)

I removed the lids. The handfuls of dried flowers looked like shreds of dead skin in the lamplight. We sifted through the petals, examining each of them. But it was the same combination – wormwood, rue, hops, black rose – as we had found in all the other boxes. We unwrapped the dolls, and pored over the wood, and the blood-soaked bandages, with the magnifying glass. Other than ascertaining that the fabric was a fine cotton, and that it appeared to have been cut with a sharp blade rather than simply ripped into strips, we could find nothing remarkable.

‘It
must
be the boxes,’ I said. ‘We are thinking that it’s the contents, the flowers and dolls, the things that were put inside deliberately. But what if it’s nothing to do with those things? What if it’s something that was put inside the boxes unintentionally?’

‘The lining.’

‘Yes. Each lining is crudely cut and pasted, with no thought and little skill to the execution. But each lining is different. We are racking our brains trying to work out the language of flowers, when we should be focusing on a language that we can actually understand. This one here,’ I pointed to the box we had been given by Lily, ‘This one we have already seen. Its words are written in blue ink, in a man’s hand.
Elizabeth Maud. 18th July 1822
.’

Will picked up the box Dr Bain had left with Joe. ‘Can you read the words in this one? They’re small and daubed with paste. The box has been damp at some point too and the ink has bled.’

‘I work in a hospital,’ I said, reaching for the magnifying glass. ‘I read bad handwriting all the time – frequently when it’s been moistened by bodily fluids.’ I hesitated. ‘Are you sure you wish to pursue this? It may lead us into danger. Dr Bain is dead. Mrs Catchpole. Joe Silks—’

‘And if I said “no” would you throw the boxes onto the fire and have done with it?’

‘I would not.’

‘Then I’m with you,’ said Will. He squeezed my hand. ‘“Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”’ and we grinned at one another like thieves in the lamplight.

I held the magnifying glass over the second coffin. The lining was a patchwork of fragments, some larger than others, stuck down to cover the seams of the lid, base and sides, and to bind the whole together. The writing itself was fragmented; truncated where the coffin-maker’s blade had sliced clumsily. But there were letters, syllables, words distinguishable nonetheless. Would we be able to work out its meaning from so little? ‘Write this down,’ I said.

Will rummaged about the table top until he found a pen. He flipped open the ink pot. ‘Yes?’

‘rupt,’ I said. ‘transu . . . many trials I . . . plain water . . . udation, thrown in . . . umbilical . . . readily gets into the . . . thence into . . .’

At length we were done. ‘The paper is the same in both boxes,’ I said. ‘And the handwriting. I’m familiar with the hand of every doctor at St Saviour’s, but I don’t recognise this one. And apart from its obvious medical content I can’t fathom a word of sense from it either.’ I groaned, and put my hands over my eyes. They were streaming with the effort of peering at the tiny faded scribbles. ‘What on earth did Dr Bain
see
when he looked at these boxes?’

‘Are they torn from patients’ notes?’ said Will.

‘The paper is too thin to be from a ward ledger, though it’s possible it’s from private notes,’ I replied. ‘It looks to me to be foolscap. There is a slight perforation, or a watermark at the edge here. I’d say it was a part of a letter, or a draft of something.’

We sat in silence, gazing at the list of words, the fragments Will had written down. What else was there that might guide us? ‘Your mother’s name,’ said Will. ‘Can you confidently say that it is written in the same hand as the word-fragments from this second coffin?’

‘I’m certain,’ I replied. ‘The “b”, “a”, “u” are all identical. And the tall stroke of the “t”. There’s no question about it.’

‘So why might a doctor write her name? And her date of death?’

‘For his notes.’

‘And who was her doctor?’

‘Dr Sneddon,’ I said. ‘She was a special case. An interesting case. She and my brother both died. He published a piece about it in the
London Chirurgical Review
.’

‘When?’

‘1823.’

‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘That’s the year
after
the date we have here.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It takes time to get published.’ And then, all at once, I knew. I looked up, up at the wall opposite, covered from floor to ceiling with shelves, each lined with leather-bound volumes. I took the lamp and went over to them. Midway down the second bay was a bound run of the
London Chirurgical Review
. I seized a chair. Still holding the lamp I stood upon the seat, so that my face was level with the volumes. ‘It’s fortunate that Dr Bain and I were such slap-dash parlour maids,’ I said. ‘One can put a book back, but not the dust. And the dust lies undisturbed along this entire shelf, apart from in front of the volume for 1823.’ I pulled it out. ‘Catch.’

Will caught the book in both hands. My own were shaking. My heart raced, and all at once I could hardly breathe with excitement.

‘I think you should look for it,’ said Will. ‘It’s about your mother after all.’ He handed me the volume.

‘Thank you,’ I said. I took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you for being here. For helping. For being a true friend.’

He blushed. ‘It’s you who solved the riddle.’

I grinned. ‘I know. Brilliant, eh? Let’s just hope we’re right.’ I flicked through the volume. ‘The notes in the coffins must have been written by Dr Sneddon.’

‘Would he use his own notes for so macabre a purpose?’

‘I suppose it doesn’t seem very likely.’

‘Besides, you say Dr Sneddon is long dead. Obviously he didn’t kill Dr Bain, though it may well be someone connected to him who did.’

‘And we cannot be certain these are his notes lining the coffins. Unless we find—’ And there, there it was. ‘Look!’ I said. ‘Look! Read that. It is his. And yet – oh!’ All at once my heart seemed to stop inside me. Dr Sneddon would not have used his own notes as scrap paper, but someone else would have.

Will took the volume. ‘“rupture or transudation,”’ he read. ‘“By many trials I know that plain water, or any simple fluid fit for transudation, thrown into the umbilical arteries or veins—”’

‘And the author?’

‘
Observations on the Gravid Uterus
. . . Dr Henry Sneddon.’

‘And look at this.’ I handed him the words he had written, the words I had read out, culled from the scraps of paper that lined the two tiny coffins.
transu . . . many trials I . . . plain water . . . udation, thrown in
. . .

‘It’s the same,’ said Will.

‘It is his paper about my birth. The coffins are lined with his notes, the
Review
confirms it.’

‘But why would he—’

‘Use his notes for such a purpose? He didn’t. Dr Sneddon died the year after I was born. I believe he followed the tradition of St Saviour’s and bequeathed his notes and papers to his successor. It was
that
person who used Dr Sneddon’s notes to line the coffins.’

‘Then who was Dr Sneddon’s successor?’

For a moment I could not answer. I tried to speak, but my tongue would not move. I knew well enough who it was. His name stuck in my throat even as the consequences of our discovery made my mind reel. I would not have chosen such an antagonist for the world.

We put the leather-bound volume back onto the shelf, and the coffins back into the sack. Despite the evening’s discovery I was still hesitant: we could still not be completely sure who had murdered Dr Bain, Joe, Mrs Catchpole. Mainly, because I simply could not fathom
why
. But we were moving closer. The knowledge was unsettling. Will extinguished the lamps. Our candles were feeble in the engulfing blackness.

Perhaps it was because I was glad to get out of Dr Bain’s cold and cheerless house that my cautiousness deserted me. And, I had to admit, my mind was whirling and confused. I felt as though I was in a dream – walking through a parody of our once-ordered and mundane world; a world now filled with those who would take life rather than do all in their power to save it. Will too was silent and distracted. And so neither of us saw the dark figures standing in the shadows of the garden wall. They had sticks, and a dark lantern. I smelled the hot metal of the thing at the same moment that they came at us.

‘Jem Flockhart?’ the voice was rough. In the moonlight I saw his brass buttons glint, his tall hat gleam a dark blue-black. ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Dr James McCredie Bain; the murder of the vagrant known as Joe Silks, and the murder of Mrs Annabel Catchpole.’

T
hey said I was a murderer, and that Newgate was my destination. Newgate. The name is enough to strike terror into the strongest heart. I was bundled into a Black Maria and taken there directly. My manacles were thick, heavy things, rough at the wrists, as though coated with a rim of dried blood; the gyves about my ankles chafed and rattled. I was alone – thank God for that mercy, at least, though I could not see that I had much else to be grateful to Him for. The wagon stank of piss and fear, but I held myself firm; I would not allow my body or my mind to betray me, not now. Nor would I sit silent. I was falsely accused, and I would not go quietly into that hellish place. And so I screamed my innocence at the top of my voice, over and over again, till my throat was raw, the streets rang and my ears buzzed.

Inside, I was brought along a narrow winding passage. So many gates were locked and unlocked, so many gratings and doors creaked and slammed before and behind me, so incessant was the harsh jangling of the keys, that I was soon lost in confusion almost as deep as my despair. A dismal tarnished moon eased out from leaden clouds as we crossed a courtyard, bounded on all sides by high walls and black-barred windows. The air, even outside, was thick and choking, the flagstones slimy underfoot, the prison above us a dark, brooding hulk. From the right, on the other side of a tall, spike-topped wall, I could hear the screams and cries of the women prisoners – as hideous to the ear and as fearful to the heart as the howls from a pack of she-wolves. We entered the building opposite; it was broad and heavy looking, like St Saviour’s. But whereas St Saviour’s windows were large and bright, the windows of Newgate were small and thickly smothered with dark iron bars. Up ahead, the groans and horrid laughter turned my blood to water.

I was taken to a ward – one of many that we passed, all exactly alike – in which some twenty men were lying upon the ground. My shackles were removed; I was handed a stinking mat and a thin grey blanket, and told to lie upon the floor. I lay down as I was bid, my eyes staring, my body shaking. And there they left me, at the mercy of my fellow prisoners, in the darkness of the Newgate night.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could make out shapes; bodies lying, crouching, moving in the darkness. Beside me, a man’s face emerged out of the shadows, as though conjured from the deep. His skin had a greyish cast, and was stretched tight across his broad flat face. He was thickset, muscular, with a bald head; his left eye pale and dead, his right eye cruel and glinting with desire. His lips curled – ‘Hello, my pretty.’ His breath was rank with decay.

I threw back my head, so that whatever dim light the place possessed might illuminate my features. My voice, when I spoke, was a snarl, my mask – that hideous scarlet stain I had despised all my life – lent my face such a villainous aspect that he recoiled from me at once.

‘Have a care,’ I hissed. ‘I am not what I seem, and I can poison you so vilely that you will scream for my forgiveness. I can make your eyes melt in your head, your skin itch till you tear it off with your own fingernails. I can make your guts boil like tar inside you. I will cause you such pain, such torment, that you will beg for the hangman’s noose.’ I held up a finger, and pointed it directly at his one good eye. ‘I am a man like none you have ever known. And I
will
kill you if you come near me.’