The Specimen (21 page)

“I have a cramp coming on in my foot; the exercise will get rid of it.”

“Oh, that is a nuisance, isn’t it? Why don’t you walk up and down?” Isobel got up and put her arm under Euphemia’s elbow. “You seem a little clammy, if I may
say so.” Looking at her closely she said, “You are in a state, Miss Carrick. I think I will go and find that girl of yours—Susan, isn’t it?

“Now, wriggle your feet whilst I find some brandy, I won’t be long.” She peered at Euphemia’s eyes. “You look ghastly. I always used to get the cramps down my legs.
Of course, all this sort of nuisance just disappears when you get married and—” She gave a nervous giggle. Perhaps it was a snort.

Euphemia closed her eyes and clutched at the bottle. Isobel Scales was already at the door. Euphemia watched in fascination as the train on her mauve and vivid lilac skirt with the yellow
trimmings whipped out of sight.

When Isobel came back some fifteen minutes later with the brandy bottle (not the decanter which would have been easy enough to locate in the dining room) and a couple of glasses (not brandy
glasses), Euphemia was almost back together again. She accepted the glass of brandy and drank it quite cheerfully.

“I do apologise, Mrs Scales. How dreadful of me.”

“Let’s not mention it. I’m not in the least perturbed by these mishaps. We are all human and subject to the whims of nature. And I think we are well enough acquainted by now,
not to let that sort of thing embarrass us, are we not?”

And you are fairly well acquainted with my kitchen, thought Euphemia, as Isobel Scales sipped at the brandy she had poured for herself and fully occupied the chair.

“After all, I myself have fainted in this very house. If you don’t mind my saying so, you lace yourself rather tighter than fashion absolutely dictates, Miss Carrick. I have always
striven for the nineteen; you on the other hand really have no need to be so fierce. My husband, when I was first married, was constantly arguing the case for a more ‘natural’ figure.
His head was full of scientific this and medical reasons for that. To be honest, I did not care for his arguments at all. Being looser around one’s torso is in no way indicative of
one’s morals, Miss Carrick.” Isobel Scales was in no particular hurry to leave. She gave another nervous snort. “This water is gone tepid, shall we ring for some hot? Then we can
discuss my little plan to steal your dwarf away for a few days. Isn’t this fun?”

There was no doubt in Euphemia’s mind that Isobel Scales was having fun of some sort. She found herself unable, finally, to keep it up any longer.

“Mrs Scales,” she said abruptly, “Harris has departed this world. It was quite sudden, and unexpected, some five months ago.”

Euphemia watched Isobel’s face moving. Flakes of powder fell from her face; spittle glistened on her teeth and made silvery strings as she opened her mouth silently and shut it again. Her
hair was dressed so tightly that the skin around her temples forced her expression into something which was not natural. It was interesting to see her in daylight, and alone. Euphemia found herself
wondering if Mrs Scales ever took her hair pins out.

Mrs Scales had satisfied her appetite for brandy. She dropped the Angel’s fingers she had been holding to the china. “And so whom must I congratulate for those?”

“Susan, of course. She made a point of learning the craft very quickly.”

“Quite so.” Isobel Scales rose unsteadily to her feet.

Euphemia forced herself out of her chair to see her out. She did not want Mrs Scales wandering the wrong way.

Isobel Scales thanked Euphemia for the interview, but as she turned to leave what little colour there was in her face drained away. Euphemia was fascinated to see the grey skin clouded under the
flaky powder and, sidling a little closer, waited to see what would happen next. Mrs Scales began to say something but it was incomprehensible; she raised her hands in the form of some gesture as
the words refused to come out in the right order. Euphemia frowned. One moment there she was upright, the next moment she had fallen onto the carpet in a swoosh of silk and a small thud, which was
made by her head, banging on the floor.

The fresh air assaulted Euphemia on the doorstep. It went into her ears and up her nose. It travelled along her sleeves and slipped into her armpits. Mrs Scales’ driver got down from the
coach when he caught sight of her. Euphemia said, “Fetch this doctor from this address. Are you literate, or do I need to read it out to you? Very good. Mrs Scales is gravely ill—do not
come back without the doctor.”

The coach bounced on its springs as he stepped up and settled himself, slapping the reins. The two horses touched noses and tossed their heads. The gravel beneath hooves and wheels crunched.

“She seemed all right before, ma’am,” said Susan, who had managed without Euphemia’s assistance to get the conscious but immobile Mrs Scales onto the day-bed and into a
comfortable repose while they waited for the doctor. “But just because someone seems all right, doesn’t mean to say that they
are
all right.” Susan dabbed at Mrs
Scales’ forehead with a cool damp muslin and felt her pulse. Both of them were thinking about Mr Harris’ sudden demise but neither wanted to admit that they feared a repeat
performance.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Taking the lady’s pulse, ma’am. I learned it years ago.”

“And what good will that do?”

“It won’t do any good at all, ma’am, but it tells me how strong and fast her heart is beating.”

“And how does she do?”

“She’s in a bad way, ma’am. Like a bird that’s been mauled by the cat.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Susan.” Euphemia got down onto her knees and spoke to Isobel in a businesslike voice. “The doctor will be here very soon, I should think. But, in
the meantime, would you please let me know if there is anything you need. Is there a particular remedy, Mrs Scales, which you have been prescribed of late?”

“I don’t think you’ll get no answer from her, ma’am.”

Isobel’s breaths were shallow and laboured; her eyes were open and the lids flickered a little as she tried to focus on Euphemia. Under duress Susan took a pair of scissors to
Isobel’s corset after unbuttoning the silk jacket of her dress.

“Don’t fuss, Susan; it can’t possibly do any harm and it may do some good.”

Cutting the linen tapes made no difference and Isobel’s paralysis remained unchanged. Susan continued to dab at Isobel’s forehead and now also at her chest with the damp muslin.
Isobel continued to breathe but just as badly. Euphemia got up and went to stand at the front door. Isobel Scales’ penchant for games had taken a turn for the worse.

Euphemia smoothed the already smooth covers on the bed in the guest room Susan had prepared in a rush while the doctor had examined the patient on the day-bed downstairs. Mrs
Scales had been carried up to the room in the arms of her driver. She had recovered from her three hour-long episode enough to talk, though Euphemia wished that she would go to sleep. It had been a
difficult day. Isobel slurred as if drunk.

“When I am dead, I want you to invite my husband to your Spirit conference. There are conversations I was unable to have. I would like you to help me.”

“Your time is not now, not even close. The doctor has said so.”

“That doctor is wrong.”

“As you wish. I will do my—whatever I can.”

Euphemia could think of nothing more horrible than being witness to whatever conversation Mrs Scales had in mind for her errant husband. She shuddered to think of it. The idea of the intimacy
appalled her.

“It doesn’t really matter how long it takes for you to accomplish my request. I will not mind waiting. Though I am concerned for your sister, Miss Carrick.”

Euphemia drew back and released Isobel’s hands from what she had been hoping conveyed tenderness or at least polite sympathy. “My sister conducts her own affairs in the way she has
seen fit. I have no influence over her.”

“She can’t have known what she was committing herself to.”

“Don’t tire yourself, Mrs Scales.”

“I have been battling with this—
malady
, for years, Miss Carrick. I am tired, indeed, of keeping up the pretence. You know what I speak of. My concern for your sister.
Troubles me. I did what I thought I must. I tried to help. I have gone to lengths.”

“It is so cold in this room, I must apologise.”

Euphemia went to the small fireplace where the flames were failing yet to throw any heat into the room. She put a lump of coal into the middle of the fire. Euphemia pulled the cord to ring for
Susan, and when she came, Euphemia told her to bring another bed-warmer for Mrs Scales.

“The cold does not trouble me. Death will be cold; I will have an eternity to get used to it.”

“That’s no way to talk, ma’am,” Susan said. “I won’t have you catching your death over the want of a bed-warmer.”

Euphemia looked at her desperately ill guest. At least it is winter, she thought. As long as she dies soon, I will be able to send her body back to London. I won’t have to see to her
buried here.

The light went steadily from the window. The day had become duller and duller, the grey of the sky thickened, and in the gloaming, as Euphemia looked out of the guest bedroom window, she saw fat
flakes of snow. Her heart sank.

That evening Euphemia looked for the book which had arrived months before, without a note. Penelope Coyne had not loaned it, but Euphemia suspected that under the quiver on
Penelope’s pout, there was a taste for something sensational. Certainly, a woman like Mrs Coyne would not forget to scribble a line or two when sending a book. Euphemia searched under all the
cushions. Susan must have tidied it away. She sat down in the chair Isobel Scales had occupied that morning and closed her eyes. A vivid image of Penelope’s son came to rest under her
eyelids. It didn’t matter that her communications with him had come to such an abrupt end. She trusted that he would make new contact with her whenever he was able and give her some positive
news about the progress he must surely by now be making with her sister.

Susan checked on Mrs Scales as often as she was able that first night. She made the fire hotter and replenished the bed-warmers and found an extra eiderdown. She covered Mrs
Scales’ shoulders with a fur stole and made the lamps bright in the room. Susan did everything she could to banish death from the house. Every night and every morning for the past five
months, kneeling at her bedside, Susan had begged forgiveness for her part in Mr Harris’ lonely passing on the cold kitchen floor. She closed her mind to the rest.

Mrs Scales had eaten nothing of the syllabub but had taken the honey from the spoon; she had refused the tincture left by the doctor, describing it as an evil poison and told Susan that the
doctor was an incompetent fool, that all doctors were incompetent, and that she should never trust them, especially those who were the most trustworthy of all. Some of her talk was certainly
muddled. At times during the evening, Mrs Scales drifted off to sleep propped up on the pillows. Then, she would open her eyes suddenly and begin to talk again. Twice, Susan had come into the room
with a hot bed-warmer to find Mrs Scales having a conversation with the empty room. Susan did not like this. It was her firm belief that those close to death were able to see ghosts. In this case,
she determined to make the room too bright and too hot for any ghosts to find agreeable for very long.

“When they lock my body away, in that horrible vault,” she said to Susan, “you must make sure that the name carved is my maiden name. Fetch the ink and paper to me.”

Susan filled the nib and wiped it carefully against the neck of the ink bottle and passed it to Mrs Scales. She spent some time over it. The pen had to be passed back and forth to be refilled,
and Mrs Scales’ hand was not steady.

“This is an instruction to be sent to my solicitor. I have put his address there.” She asked Susan to sign her own name at the bottom of the paper as witness. “I had meant to
do this. I have been forgetting and remembering too much all at once.”

“I’ll see that it’s delivered, ma’am.”

“I am very grateful.”

Susan put it aside to dry as there was no blotting paper. Mrs Scales lay back again on the pillows and closed her eyes. Susan checked the time. It was almost ten at night. Susan was reluctant to
do the usual things and leave the room. She looked at the messy scrawl and tried to decipher Mrs Scales’ line of thoughts on the paper and was doubtful over it. She filled the nib again and
wrote out on a clean sheet what she could make of the instructions.

At half past eleven Mrs Scales woke Susan who had fallen asleep in a chair near the bed.

“Miss, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. Will you tell me where he went? I came here to find him, but he wasn’t here. I can’t remember your name. Will you fetch Mr
Harris? There is something I have wanted to ask him.” She made a feeble attempt to throw back the covers from the bed and to get herself up. “I think he might be out there.”

“No one is out there this time of night, Mrs Scales. Not in the weather we’re having.”

“Nonsense, it is the middle of summer.”

“It’s blowing a gale of snow, Mrs Scales.”

“That’s not my name. But, my manners, what do they call you?”

“I’m Susan Wright, ma’am.”

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Susan Wright. I am Isobel Armstrong. Did you know that?”

“I saw you write it down, ma’am, and I signed my own beneath.”

“So you did. They won’t call me after him. I don’t want his name after all.”

“Ma’am, please let me put the covers back up.”

“Did you just say it was snowing?”

“I did, ma’am.”

“Isn’t that a curious thing to happen in the middle of summer.”

“We’re in the month of February, ma’am.”

“I see. Tell me about your sister.”

“I have only brothers, ma’am.”

“Of course, I remember now. And what about Mr Harris? Who has him now?”

“The Lord keeps him now, ma’am.”

“Goodness, how the little man has progressed! Do tell me—Lord whom? Oh, never mind. The next thing we shall hear is that he has been employed to spy on the Queen.”