The Butchered Man Read online

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The back door was not locked, but in the darkness he felt like a housebreaker. He had a candle stub in his overcoat pocket and as he lit it he considered the best way to proceed. He had no idea where she might be but he was sure he would find her if he approached the problem rationally and calmly, as if he were exploring the interior of the vessels of the blood. And the place was full of women, not armed bandits! He had nothing to fear except discovery, and that seemed unlikely, for he could hear a hymn being sung in the distance. He had luck on his side, then, to arrive when they were all at their prayers.

  He went swiftly upstairs and to the room where he had last seen her, and began his search from there. He decided that they would have put her somewhere more secluded if they wanted to hide her from him.

  He went along, looking into each room he passed. These were dormitories – rows of white curtained beds, everything very clean and very orderly. It would meet the approval of any inspector of institutions. A military drill sergeant could not be more impressed with the spotless regularity of those beds, with their blankets so precisely folded. Even in semi-darkness the floors glistened with polish. But there was no sign of Abigail.

  At the far end of the corridor he found a staircase leading up to the attic storey. He ran up it, conscious how little of his candle he had left. He found himself in another long passageway, but here the doors were locked, with labels hanging on them: linen, clothing, boots.

  Frustrated, he was about to turn back. The amen of the hymn was dying in the air and it was suddenly silent. It was then that he heard it: a low, miserable dirge of a voice, attempting to sing the last line of the hymn. It seemed to be coming from behind the next door.

  He tried the handle and found the door unlocked. He held up his candle for a moment and glimpsed a candle in a wall sconce. Quickly he lit that and as the light took hold, he began to discern the details of the room: a low bed tucked under the eaves, a table, and an uncurtained window. He was not sure if he was looking at a punishment cell or an isolation ward.

  And then he saw her: crouched in a crumpled heap in the corner, wrapped in grey blankets.

  She was staring at him, her huge eyes unblinking.

  He threw himself on his knees beside her. She fell into his arms shaking and started to sob. He felt at once that she was feverish again. The improvement he had seen in her last time had been annihilated. She was a quaking, shuddering bundle of bones.

  He did not trouble her with questions although he had a thousand he wanted to ask her. Instead he simply held her and let her cry. That seemed in the moment the most he could do for her.

  But at length he knew he must act, and he began to try to make her comfortable in a bed that was far from comfortable. He brought down the fever a little with a cold compress and gave her some opium. He managed to make her take a little of the cold gruel that someone had left for her. Had she been supposed to feed herself? What on earth had they been thinking?

  There was a part of him that wanted to do nothing but go downstairs and berate the Hilliard woman, but he held his fury in check. Abigail and her care was more important than his own satisfaction.

  “I am coming back with a carriage,” he said. “And I am taking you away from here. No matter what.”

  He would have taken her away that minute if he could. He hated again having to leave her.

  As she drifted into sleep and he watched her by the light of a guttering candle stub, he realised bitterly how badly he had failed her. He had not tried hard enough. Why had he given up so easily that afternoon? Why had he not demanded to see her, asserted himself more forcefully with Miss Hilliard? If he had seen her then he would never have gone off drinking at The Three Crowns. He been so easily distracted from what was important. It was as if he had not cared. Out of sight was out of mind.

  He sat scourging himself until the candle gave out. He sat for several long minutes in the darkness, listening to her breathing. There was some comfort in its steadiness but it was probably only the temporary effect of the tincture of opium. Her constitution was wrecked. That was the hard fact he had to face – and for which he must bear responsibility. Despite circumstances that had been against them, however Miss Hilliard might have neglected her, the responsibility for much of this could still be laid at his door. He had performed that procedure in the first place, and that had been foolhardy. He had acted on insufficient evidence and he had added greatly to the seriousness of her condition.

  All he could do now was hope that there was a chance to put it right, that he might salvage something of a life for her.

  He left her with extreme reluctance.

  ***

  “Mr Carswell, I hope to God?”

  Felix had ridden into the yard of The Unicorn, only to have a tall, burly man step out of the shadows, and catch the bridle of his horse.

  Felix stared down, somewhat startled by his aggressive manner.

  “Yes, and who the –”

  “O’Brien. Now get yourself down – you’re needed within at once.”

  “O’Brien?” Felix said, taking a moment to place the name. “The newspaper man?”

  “The Major’s been injured,” said the Irishman. “Where the devil have you been?”

  Felix dismounted while O’Brien secured the horse.

  “What happened?”

  “A brawl at the wharf. You were supposed to be at your post here! I came back to get you.”

  “Where is Major Vernon?”

  “They’ve got him back here. He was out cold. He took a blow to the head. He was trying to stop a fight.”

  “Is he still out?”

  “He was coming round when they brought him back, but I wouldn’t have said he was lucid.”

  Felix swore under his breath.

  “You’d better have a damn fine excuse,” O’Brien said, pushing open the door.

  Major Vernon was lying on his bed, as white at the pillows that were propping him up. He was pressing a bloody rag to his head. His servant, Woods, was trying to give him some brandy but the Major was waving him away, as if he did not wish to be bothered by nursing.

  “Here’s Mr Carswell, Major,” said O’Brien. “And not before time.”

  “Why did you bring him up here?” Major Vernon sounded hoarse. “There are those men in the cells – not to mention Constable Hammond.”

  “They can wait,” O’Brien said. “Now get to your work, boy!”

  Normally Felix would have objected to such a insolent manner of address, but the evidence before his eyes was enough to make any personal slights entirely irrelevant.

  He threw off his coat and began his examination.

  “Come here with that candle,” he said. “I can’t see properly.”

  O’Brien obliged and Felix peered into the wound.

  “It’s not as nasty as it looks. Only a slight contusion. Surface damage.”

  “That’s what I said,” Major Vernon said, managing a slight smile. “I was out for only a moment, but O’Brien would take alarm. The press will exaggerate...” He broke off, wincing, as Felix swabbed the wound with brandy.

  “It’ll need a stitch or two, though.”

  “He’s making light of it,” O’Brien said. “It was more than a moment. It was one hell of a crack he took. One of your compatriots, Mr Carswell, armed with a fence post.”

  “Yes, and I’ll thank you not to tell the world the Chief Constable was felled with a stick, O’Brien,” said Vernon, and flinched as Felix put in the first stitch.

  “Hold still there, sir,” said Felix. “I’ll be done in a moment.”

  “Good,” said Major Vernon. “I want you to go and see to those others. Particularly my assailant. I want to see him up before the Justices tomorrow morning, not in the Infirmary.”

  “Certainly, sir, but first I’m going to give you some laudanum.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  “You’ll need to rest and regain your streng
th, sir. I’m confining you to your bed.”

  “I’m not sure that will be possible,” Vernon began. “There’s too much to be done.”

  “Now, don’t be a fool, Major, listen to your man, and keep to your bed,” said O’Brien. Felix was pleased to note his promotion in the eyes of the formidable O’Brien. “I was thinking, we should fetch Mrs Fforde.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she’d be an excellent nurse,” Felix said.

  “Heavens, no,” said the Major. “She will fuss me to death. No, I promise I will stay in my bed tonight, Carswell, but only if you promise you will not tell my sister what has happened.”

  “And take a dose of laudanum?”

  “Very well,” said the Major. “Woods, will you fetch my night shirt? And now, Mr Carswell, go and see to Constable Hammond. I am sure he must broken a rib wrestling that brute to the ground.”

  “And then you can see the brute himself,” O’Brien said.

  “Yes, and at least you will be able to understand what he was saying,” said Major Vernon and swallowed the laudanum. “I couldn’t, for the life of me!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  As the night passed, Felix saw any opportunity of getting back to Abigail slip thought his fingers as he struggled to deal with the cases from the brawl. Nothing was straightforward. Constable Hammond’s injuries turned out to be far more extensive than a few broken limbs, a situation complicated by the fact the man was already suffering from a fever. At several points it seemed possible that death was imminent, and even when he did pull back from the brink, Felix began to fear that the man would never be restored to full health again. As for the Scotsman who had laid out the Major – he proved not to be merely drunk but poisoned. The fierce spirits in which he had copiously indulged had come from a illicit still and were adulterated with something so noxious that the man was vomiting constantly. He could not be left alone for a moment for fear of his choking to death on his own vomit. Furthermore, his wits, which could not have been very ordered at the best of times, were now so disordered that he was unruly and ungovernable at one moment and then maudlin and blubbering at another, falling upon Felix like a long lost brother.

  It was about four in the morning before Felix felt it safe to leave them. The Scotsman had finally stopped vomiting and had fallen asleep, while Hammond’s sister, a sensible sort of girl, had come in to sit with her brother. For his own part he felt so exhausted that he could not trust his own judgement, and there was nothing he could do but crawl away and get a couple of hours sleep.

  He was woken at about six by Woods with a tray of coffee and a bowl of porridge.

  “How is the Major?”

  “Getting dressed, sir,” said Woods. “He told me to tell you he feels as right as rain.”

  “I doubt that most sincerely,” said Felix, jumping out of his bed and into his dressing gown. He ran down the passageway to the Major’s quarters.

  “Sir, I urge you to go back to your bed,” he said. “You may think you feel well enough, but –”

  “That won’t catch our murderer,” Vernon said, fastening his cravat. “I am going to call on the Cleys. In fact, if you can spare an hour – a great deal to ask you in the circumstances, I know, but I would like you to come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know what you make of Miss Cley.”

  “I shouldn’t say I was a great judge of character, sir,” Felix said, a little concerned by the Major’s complexion. He still looked ashen.

  “You are trained to observe, not judge. That will be useful,” said Vernon. “Now, can you come with me?”

  “I think I had better,” Felix said, sensing it would be impossible to force the man to rest against his will. It might also be a good moment to tell him about Abigail.

  ***

  “It was just as well you came,” Vernon murmured when Miss Cley fell in a swoon on the floor only a few minutes after they had walked into the morning room. Felix helped her to the sofa and brought her round

  “Perhaps you’d better examine her, Mr Carswell,” said Mrs Cley. “She’s been very peaky the last few days. I suppose it may be shock or some such but I should be glad if you could look at her. I was going to send for Dr Woodcroft.”

  “Mamma, there is no need. I am quite well, really I am.”

  “Richard, help your sister upstairs,” said Mrs Cley. “I shan’t have any more of this nonsense, Lucy. You aren’t right and you know it!”

  Richard Cley picked up his sister from the sofa as if he were picking up a bolster. Mrs Cley was one of those women who had already formed half a dozen diagnoses on the strength of her well-thumbed copy of the Family Medical Almanac, and insisted on telling them all to Felix as they followed upstairs.

  “It might be the croup,” she said. “There has been a lot of that about and she was complaining of a sore throat. Do you think it might be the croup, sir?”

  Felix knew that for the sake of his professional prosperity he ought to learn how to deal with this sort of nonsense. He had friends who had already polished up their surfaces like good mahogany dining tables and could reflect back every piece of such nonsense with the necessary flattering glow. He decided he would rather patch up drunken navigators for a living.

  Richard Cley dropped his sister rather unceremoniously on the bed. Felix noticed that brother and sister exchanged a glance.

  “I shall see Mr Carswell alone,” said Miss Cley.

  “Lucy?” said Mrs Cley.

  “Come now, mother,” Cley said. “Let the man do his work in peace.”

  “Richard, what do you mean? I cannot leave her – think of the impropriety of it!”

  “I will only submit to this if there is no-one else here,” Lucy said.

  “But my dear, he is so very young. If it were Dr Woodcroft, perhaps –”

  “Do you wish him to examine me or not?” Miss Cley said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then please go downstairs and wait with Richard. Mr Carswell is a professional gentleman. I am sure I have nothing to fear.”

  Mrs Cley shook her head.

  “I will wait outside,” she said, “and I shall not close the door.”

  “Then I will lock the door myself!” said Miss Cley.

  “Really, my dear, I do not think you ought to rouse yourself like this,” Mrs Cley said.

  “Leave her be, mother,” said Richard Cley, taking his mother’s arm. “We’ll be downstairs.” He marched her out of the room and shut the door firmly behind him. Felix distracted himself preparing to examine the girl but, despite his impatience to be away from there, he took a deal of time doing it. He washed his hands slowly and more thoroughly than was entirely necessary and then spent a certain amount of time searching in his bag for something which he did not actually need. He could feel Miss Cley’s eyes on him and it made him very nervous. Her insistence on being examined alone was very far from the ordinary. An unmarried woman would not usually dismiss her mother in such a situation unless she was anxious to conceal something from her. He would have much preferred Mrs Cley to have remained in the room, especially when he asked her to take off her bodice and loosen her stays.

  He began by making the usual rudimentary checks.

  “Your mother said you have not been well generally,” he said, as he listened to her heart.

  “I have been sick on rising,” she said. “Very sick.”

  He nodded. “Just this morning?”

  “For the last five or six mornings.”

  In fact, it did not take very long to determine what was wrong with her. That she herself knew her condition was evident. She answered his questions tersely, as if she had answered them herself a hundred times. She was no fool. She had read the own signs of her own body.

  “And it has been how long you think since your last courses?”

  “Ten weeks. I am very regular. I have been since I was nineteen.”

  That was no surprise. She was well-formed and well-nourished: in short,
she was in perfect condition to bear a child.

  “And your breasts? Are they tender or swollen?”

  “Quite swollen. I cannot lace as tight as usual.”

  “And any soreness?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I?”

  “Yes,” she said, and opened her bodice to him. She lay back with her head on the pillows, looking studiedly away while he made his examination.

  And now that final, unavoidable question:

  “And you have been intimate with a man?”

  “Yes,” she said, and looked away from him. “Yes, I have.”

  He got up for a moment and contemplated the best way to put his diagnosis. But before he could speak she went on: “I am ruined. Of course. I understand that perfectly.”

  He could not offer any comfort to this bleak statement. He certainly could not offer any platitude about the father being persuaded to do his duty, because presumably the father was Stephen Rhodes.

  “I think I should do an internal examination to confirm this,” he said. “It may be that you only fear it. It sometimes happens in such cases, that the symptoms can be deceptive.”

  “I am sure of it,” she said. “But if you must.”

  “If you would stand up for me, ma’am,” he said.

  She flinched somewhat at his touch – it cannot have been pleasant for her, but he got it done as quickly as he could, as much for his sake as for hers.

  “So,” she said, shaking down her skirts.

  “You are with child,” he said and went to wash his hands.

  “Would you like a wife, Mr Carswell?” she said. He turned back towards her in astonishment. “I have six hundred a year and I know how to keep house. A man at the start of your profession would do very well with that, don’t you think?”

  “Miss Cley –”

  “I am not serious,” she said, “though perhaps I should be. After all, what else am I to do about this, except beg?”