Beloved Poison (37 page)

I passed a fitful night. They moved me to a smaller cell, darker than the first and strewn with filthy grey straw. The ground beneath my boots crunched as I moved, as though the boards were sprinkled with grit, though I knew the sound came from the lice and cockroaches thick underfoot. My fellow inmates, two surly, thin-faced horse thieves destined for the hulks, wrapped themselves in their ragged overcoats and went to sleep almost immediately. No doubt they were accustomed to such vile and wretched surroundings. But I was not, and I trembled where I sat, looking up at the window, watching that small smudge of grey high in the wall grow brighter as the dawn approached.

In the morning the warder came. ‘You can go,’ he said.

My heart jumped. Had the real murderer been found? It seemed unlikely. Had Dr Hawkins and Will managed to persuade the magistrate of my innocence? That did not sound plausible either. ‘Why?’ I said. The warder didn’t answer. Something was wrong, I was certain. ‘Why am I to be let out?’ I repeated. ‘Answer me!’

‘Because we have our murderer now,’ came the reply. ‘And it appears it ain’t you.’

‘Who is it?’ I said.

The warder grinned. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘How would I know?’ I snapped. ‘I’ve been stuck in here.’

‘Because you were talkin’ to him yesterday.’

‘You mean Mr Quartermain?’ I said. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. ‘But that’s absurd!’

‘That young gen’leman?’ said the warder. ‘No, not ’im.’

‘Then who are you talking about?’

‘The old feller. Thin. Grey. Looks like the Reaper ’imself.’

‘What?’ I seized the warder by the arm. ‘
What
?’

The warder wrenched his arm away. ‘Don’t touch me!’ His face was inches from mine, his breath rank with last night’s ale and onions. ‘Came in this morning. Confessed to everythin’.’ He laughed. ‘Folks love a hangin’. Should be a good crowd for it.’

They took me to his cell. He was alone, for which I was grateful. At first, neither of us said anything. I took his hands and kissed them, waiting for him to speak.

‘I’m dying, Jem,’ he said. ‘And before I die I will go blind. Then I will go mad. I will end my days raving in the darkness, and I will not know you, nor myself. I will have no memory of my wife, no conception of grace or beauty or love; there will be nothing for me but pain and torment.’

‘Father—’

He held up a hand. ‘Let me speak. Yesterday, after I left you, I went to see Dr Hawkins. There is no improvement in my condition, no diminution of this disease. I asked if I might see my brother.

‘Dr Hawkins wanted to refuse, but he could not. I had to see my fate with my own eyes. Few men are permitted so clearly to see what the future holds.’ He shut his eyes and covered his face with his hands. ‘And it holds for me such a death as I would not wish upon anyone. You should not wish it upon me either.’ He looked up at me with eyes red rimmed with sorrow. ‘Only you can save me, Jem. Only you can save me from that.’

‘But how?’ I didn’t understand. How could I save him when Dr Hawkins had failed? I could not think what he meant. ‘I would do anything—’

‘Then you will let
me
hang for these crimes, and
you
will walk free.’

‘No!’ At once his intention was clear. ‘You can’t hang for crimes you didn’t commit—’

‘And you should?’

‘No—’

‘But you
will
hang, Jem. For Mrs Catchpole, at least. And there’s nothing I can do to change that. The evidence all points to you and no one has the wit to see otherwise. No one but
you
.’

‘But Father—’ I hardly knew what to say. To see my own father – an innocent man – condemned? To allow the real murderer to escape with his life? To leave judgement in the hands of God? It was impossible. My voice was a whisper. ‘I can’t allow it.’

‘You
must,
Jem. You
must
allow it. You can clear my name after I am dead. I would not wish to die, and be thought a murderer – but only I can save you now. And I can use my own wretched life to do so.’ He held me at arm’s length and looked into my face. ‘You are like your mother,’ he said. ‘She was strong. She never gave up. She was beautiful, in her heart and soul, as you are. And I see her in you every day. She never knew you, Jem; she died so that you could live. And now, it’s time for me to do the same. You’re dearer to me than my own life. I resented your mother for making that choice, for choosing you above herself, above me, but now I understand.’ He kissed my forehead. ‘So you must leave me here, and go away from this place.’ He gave me a gentle push, and smiled. ‘My reputation, Jem, is all that matters now that you’re safe. What else does a man have if he loses that?’

I
went back to the apothecary. My father had left detailed instructions and Gabriel was working hard. The extent of the devastation around him was, for once, limited, and it appeared that only one glass retort had been smashed – and that swept aside. The air of resentful mayhem that usually surrounded the lad whenever he was left alone with a task to do was, for once, quite absent.

‘Mr Jem.’ He nodded at me, his expression serious, his nose smeared with white dust. Powdered mallow root, perhaps, or cornstarch?

‘How’re you getting on?’ I said. ‘You look as though you’ve the measure of everything. More or less.’

‘Yes,’ he spoke proudly. ‘Your father left me in charge. He said he loved me like a son and that he knew I would do him proud.’ The lad’s chin trembled as he held up a sheet of paper and squared his shoulders. ‘He said you’d be busy when you got back so he left me a list. An’ I got some helpers. Mrs Speedicut, she’s been on the pestle and mortar.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She got arms like a wrestler, or like one o’ them what works on the docks, and she can grind like nuthin’ I’ve ever seen!’

‘I’ve no doubt she can,’ I said.

‘An’ Mr Quartermain, he’s out at the churchyard right now but he’s helped too. And there’s the girl that knew Joe Silks. Her name’s Sally. Sally!’ he shouted. ‘
Sal!’
Sal’s blonde head appeared from behind a row of glass vessels. She stared at Gabriel admiringly. ‘Sal’s bottling,’ said Gabriel. ‘Made some iron tonic earlier, and there’s some tincture of nettle leaf what wants decanting. She’s got a steady hand. Mrs Speedicut got her bathed and scrubbed and found her some new clothes. Said she might stay on and help as we’re short just now.’ He frowned. ‘Pity you’re back, really,’ he added. ‘Not that I’m not glad to see you, Mr Jem—’

I reached for my apron and glanced at my father’s list. ‘He forgot out-patients,’ I said.

I set to work. It would help to focus my mind and clear my thoughts. I tried not to think about my father, alone in that terrible place, nor of the fate that awaited him. Instead, I allowed my mind to rest, forcing myself to think only of tinctures, powders and pills, my hands working at tasks that I had performed countless times. For once, I cut corners. Most of the out-patients’ prescriptions were for iron tonics, worming powders, purgatives. Blue Pill and black dose would do for most of them. Perhaps I might forgo attending the out-patients’ dispensary altogether – was not Mrs Speedicut quite capable of handing out medicines? She had seen more furred tongues and costive bowels than I’d had hot dinners – so she repeatedly told me.

I prepared everything as quickly as I could, and then tore off my apron. The stink of Newgate was making me feel ill and I itched like the Devil. ‘I need a bath,’ I said.

‘Want the nit comb and the lavender oil?’ said Gabriel, helpfully. ‘You’d better get ’em yourself, mind. I’m too busy now to be helping with baths.’

Will returned while I was putting the kettle onto the fire. ‘Good to see you, Jem,’ he said. For a moment I thought he was about to fling his arms about me, but etiquette prevailed and he merely shook my hand vigorously. ‘Your father.’ He could not meet my eyes, but looked down at our clasped hands. When he spoke, his voice trembled. ‘God help him.’

I nodded. I could not speak. Tears filled my eyes, and I brushed them away with the back of my hand. Will thrust his handkerchief at me. I dabbed my eyes. The square of white linen stank of decay. Will himself reeked of it, and it seemed to ebb and flow about him in some invisible current. ‘You smell even worse than me,’ I said.

‘I spend my days among the dead. The stench of the place is indescribable.’

‘You don’t have to describe it,’ I said. ‘I can smell it for myself.’

‘The Company have seen fit to provide me with only three carts. Three! If they saw what I’m required to do they would realise – but never mind that. We have other matters to attend to. Your father.’ He slid a glance at me. ‘We need to think what to do. We don’t have much time.’

‘He cannot die on the gallows,’ I whispered.

Will poured a cup of coffee from the pewter pot on the stove top and handed it to me. I sipped the black liquid. It was as bitter as wormwood on my tongue, but it did something to clear my head. Behind us, Gabriel clattered the weights on the scales.

‘Dr Magorian,’ said Will. His voice was quiet, guarded. ‘The secret lies with him. The coffins, Dr Bain, everything. There is no other possibility.’

‘How might we prove it? We have no evidence. And why would he do such a thing? To kill a colleague, and a colleague’s wife!’

‘We might speak to the sexton again.’

‘Old Dick?’ I said. ‘His account is so vague, so confused that it might very well mean anything. Besides, it is his testimony that has me placed at St Saviour’s churchyard at midnight with a bludgeon in my hand and a dead boy at my feet.’

‘We could look at the coffins. Pull them apart.’

‘They hold nothing more for us,’ I said. I told him what my father had said about Dr Bain’s time in Edinburgh, about his hasty departure from that city, and the events that had precipitated it. ‘The coffins are an echo of something that happened in Edinburgh, back when Dr Bain procured bodies for Dr Magorian’s medical school.’

Above the dresser the clock ticked, a sullen reminder of the unstoppable passing of time. ‘You think it was murder?’ he said.

I thought of those six tiny coffins we had once lined up on the work bench; the six bandaged effigies lying within. What else might they signify, but death? ‘I think it was six murders,’ I said.

Will carried the tin bath up to my bedroom and put it before the fire. I emptied two kettles of boiling water into it. The room was warm, the fire blazing. The bundles of lavender that hung from the rafters filled the air with the scent of summer, the rosemary I grew in a plant pot on the window ledge added a stimulating, astringent woodiness. But Newgate had impregnated every part of me. My hair and clothes, even my flesh seemed to stink of the place, and I felt gritty and stale, as though my clothes were filled with chaff and my skin crawled with fleas and lice. Gabriel had brought up some cold water, and I poured this too into my bath. I added a few drops of geranium oil, some lavender oil, and a muslin bag of camomile flowers, rosemary and oatmeal. The steam grew fragrant, the water milky.

I lay there with the perfumed vapour rising about my ears. I sank beneath the surface, my knees raised, my breath held and my eyes closed tight. I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat. Was this what it felt like in the womb? Warm, safe and confined, the world outside muffled and soporific? Then I thought of my father – cold, alone, awaiting death, denied even the oblivion of sleep. I drew the nit comb hard across my skull, and tried to think what I was supposed to do.