Elijah’s Mermaid (37 page)

I am back in my cell. It is dark again. My breaths form little clouds of ice, and yet I feel hot and feverish, a horrible cramping ache in my belly. A stinging sweat runs from my pores, soaking through the cloth of the dress I still wear. To breathe is a labour. To cough is a nightmare, but cough I must to spit out the clots, all the bleeding caused by those rubber tubes. Even though they were oiled, it hurt so much when they forced them down into my throat, and nothing that I could do to fight, gagging, thinking I would drown, constrained by the pacifying coat, until every sense of feeling was gone – and I think it must have numbed my mind because, afterwards, when they were done, when I was taken back to my room, I thought I had turned into water, become so transparent and slippery I might melt away through the gaps in the boards, down through the drains to the sewers.

I want to sleep but I cannot, tormented by distant whimpering cries. I wince at the pain of my blistered toes when I stand and creep towards the door. I look out through a metal grating. Wall jets burn like the baleful eyes of dogs. I don’t
think
those dogs can see me, but still I duck down when I hear the whining of hinges near by. A solid thump, then a shadow looms closer, the overlong and distorted form of a man who is limping towards stone stairs that lead to the house’s upper floors. I wait and I listen long after he’s gone, when the whimper becomes a keening cry, a heart-rending, pitiful sound it is. I can’t bear it. I have to go back to the bed and bury my head in the blanket there, pressing my hands against my ears, not
daring to draw them down again until it is quiet, until it is dawn, and only the hissing rush of air that blasts through the vents built into the walls. By that clock, I know it is time to rise.

Mrs Cruikshank comes in with a tray. She stands very close at the side of the bed. ‘Just look at the state of your pillow,’ she says, ‘all these bloodstains! How is the laundry to keep up? Well, let’s hope you’ve learned your lesson now. I want to see you eat this toast . . . or is it to be the tubes again?’

My throat is cut into ribbons of flesh. How can I swallow? The thought of toast brings tears to my eyes. Could she really be as cruel as that?

I think the sound is inside my head, but no – it is out in the passageway, a shriek that rebounds off hard stone walls, then the scuffling patter of running feet, and the younger nurse appears in the door. Her voice is rushed and panicky. ‘Mrs Cruikshank, you must come at once. She’s gone and taken awful bad. I think . . . I think . . .’

Mrs Cruikshank drops the tray to the floor. An echoing, clanging crash it makes. The other nurse kneels to clear up the debris – or so it seems to me. But no, she is bowing her head in prayer, her words punctuated by sniffling cries. ‘Oh, dear God, have pity on her soul.’

Mrs Cruikshank gives her a face a slap. ‘Won’t you shut up, you stupid girl. Go upstairs and fetch my husband . . . and then come back to clear up this mess!’

Mrs Cruikshank sweeps out. The young nurse goes scurrying after her, clutching a hand to her reddening cheek while I press mine to my aching chest and swing my legs off the side of the bed, and slowly, very slowly, I make my way to the open door – which neither one of them thought to lock.

A shaft of light is shining out from the farthest end of the passageway. I move closer. I smell something putrid and sweet. I see another metal bed and the woman who is lying there while Mrs Cruikshank draws back a sheet, beneath which the patient’s nightshift is bunched up high around her waist. Her legs are spread wide and between her thighs is a bloody
mass of swollen flesh, a gash suppurating with thick green slime. There are ugly black stiches, criss-crossed and knotted, ends dangling loose like pubic hairs, though all of her own have been shaved away to leave a mound of nude white flesh – much like the pudenda of classical statues, those forms that Osborne so admired.

Here is nothing to admire. I am transfixed. I am horrified. Is this the operation, then, to remove the root of lust and sin? My voice is a croaking whisper. ‘What have you done to her?’

Mrs Cruikshank speaks, but does not look round. ‘Blood poisoning . . . an infected wound.’ There is a sobbing in her throat when both hands grasp hard at her crucifix and Mrs Cruikshank starts to chant, ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven . . .’

Oh dear God, what is to become of me, for wherever Our Father might happen to be, I do not think it can be here.

LILY

‘
But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked
.

‘
Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: ‘we’re all mad here. I’m mad
.

You’re mad
.’

‘
How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice
.

‘
You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here
.’

From
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
by Lewis Carroll

When Freddie and I left the House of the Mermaids I felt myself almost torn in two, hating to leave Elijah there, desperate to escape from Tip Thomas’s touch – the scrape of those fingernails on my cheek, not to mention the implications made about Freddie’s relationship with me. In the cab was a stony silence, only broken by the beat of the rain and the splash of the wheels through slush and ice, and Freddie’s breaths, too heavy, too loud.

Elijah’s had been too feeble.

I was restless and fractious, my nerves strung too tight, tempted to ask Freddie to try to be quiet, so that I could think, so that I could plan – but then I noticed the tears in his eyes, which captured the sheen of each street lamp we passed. And when he took my hand in his I let it lie there, limp and chill.

More dazzling light in Burlington Row, where Samuel had waited as Freddie requested, still in the upstairs sitting room, where he’d clearly made himself at home, surrounded by books and magazines, trays with pots of tea and cake – and Elijah’s papers, there on the table.

Had he read them? In his place I think I would have done. But even so I did not ask, and he did not tell when, without a word, I picked them up and took them upstairs to my room again to replace them beneath the mattress edge.

On my return, he and Freddie became most attentive. I was urged to sit beside the fire, though nothing could thaw my dismal mood when Freddie related the tale of our day, and Samuel Beresford listened, intent. I sat there very still and mute – which quite belied the turmoil inside; I was breathless with the anxiety of knowing how ill my brother was, and the wicked fate befallen Pearl. But the hold that Tip Thomas exerted on Freddie, that part my uncle did not relay – though it was the books, of course it was – the threat that caused Freddie such distress.

I looked straight into Samuel’s eyes, my own no longer as coy as before when I stated, ‘Freddie was right . . . when he mentioned a blackmailing plot. Only it is not money that they want. Unless we bring Pearl to the House of the Mermaids they mean to take my brother’s life.’

‘What?’ Samuel Beresford actually laughed, turning to Freddie in disbelief. ‘But this is ridiculous! The stuff of penny dreadfuls! You can’t leave Elijah locked up in a brothel. Why, it’s illegal imprisonment. You must tell the police . . . immediately!’

‘Things have gone too far for that.’ Freddie was looking very grim. ‘I will be frank with you, Sam. If I go to the law then I shall be ruined . . . my name, my business, everything. Tip Thomas will tell of events from my past, things I once did that would shame me now. I prefer that you . . . and Lily too . . . should never have the need to know.’

I made my passionate retort. ‘I might know more than you realise. But what do I care for your shameful past! My only concern is my brother, and because of that and that alone we must not speak of this to a living soul.’

‘Lily, dear girl,’ Freddie’s voice was raw with emotion, ‘to
think of your brother in Cheyne Walk, in that house full of murderous thieves and whores, the very place from which . . .’

He broke off, the silence remaining filled by me. ‘The worst offender is Osborne Black. It was he who tried to murder Elijah, and whatever that Mrs Hibbert may be, she seems . . .’ I struggled to find the right words, thinking back to the time I’d first seen her, that day in a hot dark tent in Cremorne. ‘She seems kinder . . . kinder than I would have expected. She has cared for Elijah and . . .’

‘She is unnatural and devious,’ Freddie cut in, his voice brutally hard. ‘She is as cunning as a fox. She would tear off your head and not give the matter a second thought. And, as for that Tip Thomas, as I have learned to my detriment, he is not a man to do business with. That simpering smile is all a mask. He is a fiend in human form.’

‘I do not trust him either, but what choice do we have in the matter? We must do as he says or else risk the revenge he might think to take, finishing what Osborne Black began. And, believe me, Elijah is in no state to protect himself from any harm. They have doped him near senseless with opiates. He needs a doctor . . . he . . .’ The seed of a plan took root in my mind. ‘Your doctor, Freddie . . . what about him? The doctor who came here this morning. Did he not speak about an asylum? Did he not tell Tip Thomas that he’d seen Pearl?’

Freddie sighed and shrugged, his shoulders hunched forward. He looked like an old and broken man. ‘He may possess some influence. But what favours will Evans do me now? I fear that we argued most dreadfully regarding his views on your own state of health.’

‘Exactly what action do you suggest?’ Samuel’s interruption was stark. ‘Lily, you can’t knock on an asylum’s doors and leave with an inmate on your arm. If the committal forms have all been signed then there’s really no way around it. Only Osborne, as Pearl’s lawful husband, can have any say in the matter.’ He stopped short, and looked thoughtful a moment or two, going on with, ‘I should approach him again. Osborne may be more
reasonable if
I
tell him that Elijah is found . . . and in what state, and how others may soon come to hear our suspicions.’

‘No!’ I shouted in reply. ‘Osborne Black must
not
be told. He cannot be trusted. What if he takes Pearl somewhere else?’ I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment, wishing the throb in my temples would fade, continuing in meeker tones, ‘What evidence do we actually have? Nothing more than my brother’s word, and what would such accusations be worth with Elijah hardly fit to speak?’

‘Lily, please!’ Samuel Beresford’s next interruption caused me to sit back in shocked alarm, for all at once he was kneeling before me, his arms holding mine in a firm restraint, his eyes lit with gold by the fire in the hearth, which in turn caused my heart to flicker up – that flame all too soon being doused again when recalling Freddie also there, seeing my uncle’s scowled response to this over-familiar display, and my face growing hot with embarrassment when caught in that disapproving glare. After all, not twenty-four hours before I had been chasing through London’s streets with no concern for decency. And then, on that very afternoon, I had willingly entered the doors of a brothel – the doors through which Pearl might be compelled to return and begin a new life as a whore – the commodity of flesh and blood – the bartering chip for my brother’s life.

Bang, bang, bang!
I almost jumped out of my skin at that sudden knocking sound below, and then the jangling ring of a bell. Freddie looked momentarily stunned and then wondered out loud as to who it could be, grumbling at the tardy maids when Samuel rose from his place at my feet and proceeded to make his way downstairs.

Freddie was calling after him, ‘Tell whoever it is to go away. We want no visitors tonight.’ And when I heard the door’s dull slam I imagined any caller gone, that the only feet thudding back up the stairs belonged to Samuel Beresford. But, at Freddie’s sudden intake of breath, I glanced up to see Mrs Hibbert again, standing there in the door like Death’s harbinger, still dressed all in black, still disguised by her veils.

‘I thought it best to bring her in,’ Samuel explained, looking flustered. ‘This lady claims to have some news . . . something vital regarding Elijah Lamb.’

Freddie was most unwelcoming. ‘Mrs Hibbert. To what do we owe such a visit? I thought today’s business settled and done.’

‘Oh no, Mr Hall,
my
business with
you
is far from done.’

Freddie groaned. ‘Will you say your piece and be gone. Out with it, madame . . . then out with you! As you know, there are plans we need to make.’

‘Any plans
you
have made I will unmake.’ Mrs Hibbert lifted an arm from which there dangled a reticule. Its jet beads glistened with red from the fire, and then a white flash as some papers emerged, and I noticed a whiff, like musty old books, exuding from the scroll in her hand, which, despite being held out for Freddie to take, he seemed determined to ignore.

She lowered her hand, a weary sigh, to which Freddie responded impatiently, ‘Well, what is it? What have you brought?’

‘Thanks to Lily’s reminder this afternoon I have found this document. It bears the name of Osborne Black, made at the time when Pearl was sold. There is a clause in which he agrees that should he ever throw her off, then I . . .’ She faltered, before going on, reciting the words as if memorised. ‘Then
I
, Mrs Hibbert of Cheyne Walk, being Pearl’s legal guardian, may take her back into my employ, caring for her accordingly . . .’

‘Is this true?’ Samuel asked, his voice hard-edged with doubt.

‘You did not say so this afternoon,’ Freddie went on with equal disdain.

‘I . . . I had forgotten. Tip Thomas had not. But he did not think to look in this bag. If he had,’ she lifted the paper again, ‘then he would have no further need to consider the fate of Elijah Lamb.’

‘But,’ Samuel spoke slowly, as if thinking aloud, ‘would the asylum accept this draft as proof without seeking confirmation
from whoever drew the contract up . . . that is
if
it was legally drawn up.’

‘I suspect the lawyer now lost or dead, otherwise Tip would have gone to him. But
you
may use this against Osborne Black. It is the only hope we have.’