The Art of Dying Read online

  She sounded eager, clearly hoping his question had been a mere overture to revealing a significant discovery.

  Raven shook his head.

  ‘Mr Quinton has Jarvis in his sights because he empties the doctor’s pockets every night,’ she said. ‘Meanwhile Mrs Lyndsay continues to believe one of the new housemaids is to blame. She came from the Lock Hospital, and as far as Mrs Lyndsay is concerned, she is a fallen woman and therefore morally irredeemable.’

  Raven thought that any such accusation levelled at Jarvis was absurd, but the notion forced him to confront just how limited was his knowledge of the man. For all he knew, the butler could have been getting away with helping himself for years, particularly as Dr Simpson paid no mind as to how much money was in those pockets.

  ‘I suppose we know little of what Jarvis does when he’s not working at Queen Street, do we?’ he said. ‘Though it hardly seems likely he’d be spending Simpson’s money in some den of vice. But Edinburgh is a place where all men have secrets.’

  ‘Indeed. So what might be your covert agenda?’

  ‘Me? Surely I am not under suspicion?’

  ‘If I were a detective, you’d be the first I would question. Someone who is always complaining about his financial situation. Bemoaning your lack of opportunities to earn more while Dr Simpson is ambivalent even when a thousand pounds is dangled before him. You would surely fit the bill for someone inclined to steal from his employer.’

  Raven was relieved to see that she was smiling as she said this.

  ‘I suppose if anyone might get to the bottom of it, it would be this Quinton fellow,’ he observed. ‘I doubt I have ever encountered anyone wound so tight or so humourless, but I suspect those traits are the perfect antidote to Simpson’s tendency towards the chaotic. What do you know of him?’

  ‘Only what I have heard from Mrs Simpson. He keeps himself apart from the other servants. I know that he is married and lives with his wife in a house on Castle Street. He and Mrs Quinton have fostered a baby, a little boy called Rochester. Mrs Simpson arranged it.’

  ‘Rochester?’ Raven scoffed.

  ‘Yes. And I really don’t think you are in a position to criticise given names.’

  She was laughing now, a sound Raven found immeasurably pleasing.

  ‘Perhaps you could try to find out more about him?’ she suggested. ‘You are better placed than I since he shuns the company of those below stairs.’

  Raven thought it unlikely that the bloodless creature he had been introduced to would deign to converse with him either, but did not wish to appear unhelpful.

  ‘I will try,’ he said, hoping he did not sound as noncommittal as he felt. ‘In the meantime, I have some progress to report on our investigation.’

  ‘That is welcome news,’ Sarah said, turning to him and putting a hand on his arm. ‘Number 52 is not as it should be. Dr Simpson is barely himself. He is pretending that this mattress business is not upsetting to him, but the opposite is true. It’s plain for anyone to see. And Mrs Simpson is struggling to cope despite the new staff. She seems overwhelmed and I worry for her.’

  Sarah belatedly noticed where her hand had strayed and removed it. Their eyes met briefly as she did so, which served only to add greater significance to the touch.

  ‘I think that we might be able to clear this matter up once and for all,’ Raven said, giving stridence to his tone to dispel the awkwardness. ‘I have spoken to Dr Johnstone and discovered more about his wife’s illness.’

  ‘He received you?’ Sarah asked. ‘Cordially?’

  ‘He was as affable as could be expected in the circumstances, but yes. He was most helpful.’

  ‘He all but threw me out for my impertinence in daring to be there asking questions. He took great exception, I think, to being interrogated by a woman.’

  ‘The man is grief-stricken and his sorrow has been compounded by the indignity of his wife’s death having become the subject of debate. In going there alone, did you really expect it would be otherwise?’

  Sarah glared at him, so he hurried on.

  ‘I prevailed upon him to help us clarify the matter. He said that he will write a letter stating that his wife did not die of haemorrhage and that he had nothing but gratitude for Dr Simpson’s kind attention. He suggested that his account of events could be corroborated by the nurse who attended Mrs Johnstone after the operation until her death.’

  ‘Then we must find her,’ Sarah said. ‘We should amass as much evidence as possible to prove beyond doubt the baselessness of these damaging accusations and show those foul peddlers of fiction to be the craven gossip-mongers that they are.’

  Raven was a little taken aback by her vehemence and thought that the whole matter would have been resolved long ago if someone had thought to put Duncan and Miller in a room alone with Sarah.

  ‘Perhaps more significantly,’ Raven said, ‘I might be able to prove that her death was entirely unrelated to Dr Simpson’s procedure.’

  Sarah stopped walking.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The symptoms she experienced were similar to a fatal case I was involved with recently. I think I might have mentioned it to you. It was perhaps the second such case within the same household. It is my theory that this might be a dangerous and perplexing new disease. I am on my way now to speak to the doctor who had treated both patients first. I thought him old-fashioned and outdated in his practice, though I might have judged him harshly, as Dr Simpson was also powerless to identify or intervene in what appears to be the same condition.’

  ‘Then I am glad that I have come with you,’ Sarah said. ‘Perhaps I can learn what it is about your manner that makes you welcome in the home of a gentleman while I am sent away with a flea in my ear.’

  ‘I think we both know which quality of mine makes the difference.’

  ‘Yes, and you flatter yourself if you think it is your being a doctor.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  s they turned into Broughton Place, Sarah wondered if Raven was right. Had he discovered a new disease? He certainly seemed to have convinced himself, as he was unusually animated, describing the common symptoms the patients had experienced. He was still in full flow when they arrived outside Dr Fowler’s residence. It was a neat little dwelling in the middle of a terrace, similar in appearance to No. 52 but on a much smaller scale.

  ‘How will you explain my being here?’ she asked as they approached the door.

  ‘It hadn’t occurred to me that I would have to do so,’ Raven admitted, frowning slightly. ‘I’ll say that you are my assistant, a nurse who works with me.’ He seemed satisfied with that and knocked on the door. ‘It might be best if you refrained from speaking,’ he added as the door was opened.

  They were shown into a small parlour by a young girl who bade them wait while she sought out her master. The space was rather spartan, in stark contrast to the overstuffed room Dr Johnstone had thrown her out of. The few bits of furniture had an air of neglect about them, stained and shabby. An unmarried man lived here, Sarah thought. Or a widower. She immediately felt sorry for him, perhaps because she too would soon be alone, left behind to fend for herself. Then she remembered that Archie was not going to leave her entirely.

  She noticed a pile of papers on a low table next to a seat by the fireplace, which upon closer inspection appeared to be hand-written. Sarah edged close enough to take a look, expecting to find medical notes. To her surprise she discovered that Dr Fowler appeared to be writing a story, perhaps even the early stages of a novel. She skimmed a paragraph, further surprised to discover it written from the point of view of a woman. It appeared to be a tale of anguish and deprivation. She wondered if he had been reading Charles Dickens. She wondered also if Dr Fowler was not merely unmarried, but lonely.

  The parlour door opened, interrupting her reflections. She took a guilty step away from the table as Dr Fowler entered, looking to all intents and purposes like the human embodiment of his care-worn fixtures and fitting
s. His clothes appeared to be as old as he was, all frayed edges and loose threads. He seemed surprised and not entirely happy to find Raven standing at his fireside. Sarah was ignored so completely that she might as well have been invisible, her worry about how she might be introduced rendered superfluous. He prefers his women fictional, she thought.

  ‘Dr Raven. I had not expected to see you again.’

  ‘I apologise for this impromptu visit, Dr Fowler, but there is an important matter that I must discuss with you.’

  Their host indicated that they should sit. Sarah lowered herself into a chair, fully expecting a plume of dust to rise up from the upholstery as she did so.

  ‘I have some questions about the Porteous case,’ Raven began.

  Fowler shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘I regret ever having involved you in it,’ he said.

  Raven pointedly ignored this and continued: ‘Greta Porteous said her mother died shortly before George, and she seemed concerned that she also might become ill. She seemed to believe her brother and her mother succumbed to the same disease. And yet she told me you had informed her that it was a failing heart that led to her mother’s death.’

  ‘Mrs Porteous was ill for a longer period than George, a number of weeks. The family engaged the services of a nurse to help look after her and it seemed as though she would recover. But her illness was of a relapsing and remitting kind. At times she seemed to rally – under my instruction, of course – and then she would worsen.’

  ‘Did you notice any similarities in the symptoms?’

  ‘There was a degree of delirium, I suppose. Some days she would seem quite lucid and other days she was tormented as though haunted by spectres. They do say that those who are closest to death are most able to see the world that lies beyond it.’

  Sarah snorted and then attempted to cover it up with a sneeze. The proliferation of dust at least made this seem plausible enough.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  ‘Were there other symptoms? What of her temperature, her heart rate?’ Raven asked.

  ‘There was no fever. The pulse was irregular at times. All quite consistent with my diagnosis.’ Fowler shook his head and smiled at Raven, suddenly more at ease. ‘I see no evidence of contagion here. If there was, the nurse would surely be affected, as she spent more time with either of them than I did, or Miss Porteous.’

  Raven straightened in his chair.

  ‘Of course. The nurse. We should establish whether she is suffering any of the same symptoms. Do you know who she was?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Fowler replied. ‘I have recommended her to several patients before. Her name is Mary Dempster.’

  Raven looked astonished.

  ‘Did you say Mary Dempster?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘That is the name of the nurse who treated Mrs Johnstone.’

  Dr Fowler’s expression quickly progressed from smugness to confusion as the significance of the exchange was lost on him.

  ‘Three of her patients have died exhibiting similar symptoms,’ Raven went on.

  ‘Then she is in danger,’ said Sarah. ‘She might already be ill.’

  Dr Fowler looked at her as though she had just materialised in front of him, like one of the spectres he claimed had tormented Mrs Porteous.

  ‘Or perhaps she is merely serving as a conduit,’ Raven suggested. ‘The unhappy medium carrying the contagion of disease from one patient to another.’

  ‘Like puerperal fever?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Exactly!’ Raven said, delighted she was following his logic.

  ‘This is nothing like puerperal fever,’ Dr Fowler protested.

  ‘It is not the disease but the contagious communicability that might be the same,’ Raven insisted.

  Fowler slumped in his chair, completely at a loss.

  ‘Where does she live?’ Raven asked. ‘Do you have her address?’

  ‘Not to hand,’ he said, getting to his feet. He wandered towards the door, leaving Sarah unconvinced he would remember what he had gone in search of by the time he reached the hall.

  ‘The nurse is the key to this,’ Raven said.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  Sarah was concerned that his enthusiasm was getting the better of him, clouding his judgment in much the same way that he himself suggested the professor’s had been compromised with respect to chloroform.

  ‘Simpson has written about this very thing, in his paper comparing puerperal and surgical fever. In 1840 in Manchester, four hundred women in different parts of the town were delivered by twelve midwives. Sixteen died of puerperal fever, all sixteen having been delivered by the same midwife. There must have been something connected to that one midwife which meant that all of her patients took the disease while the patients delivered by the other midwives escaped it. Some form of morbific principle attached to her hands.’

  Sarah opened her mouth to tell him she had read this very paper but Raven was in full flow.

  ‘Several years ago, Dr Simpson attended the post-mortem examination of a patient who had died from puerperal fever. He and another practitioner handled the diseased parts. The next four midwifery cases that Dr Simpson attended were all affected with puerperal fever. The next three cases the other doctor attended were attacked with the disease. There is something that adheres to the hands. Common ablutions will not remove it; chloride of lime must be used.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone use chloride of lime then?’

  ‘Dr Simpson favours cyanide of potass, but that is of no matter. Not all are convinced. There are those who still favour the miasma theory: epidemics of disease occurring as a result of noxious air.’

  ‘But Dr Fowler is right. This is not puerperal fever,’ Sarah said.

  ‘No. But it might be Raven’s Malady.’

  And there it was, the reason his fervour alarmed her: his hunger for professional acclaim was driving this now more than his desire to rescue Dr Simpson’s reputation.

  Regardless of his motivation, they did need to speak to Nurse Dempster. Sarah felt sure that finding her would conclude their investigation with regard to Mrs Johnstone’s death. Whatever other avenues of enquiry Raven wished to embark upon, he could do so himself.

  Dr Fowler reappeared, looking perplexed.

  ‘I must apologise. If I ever had the address, I have misplaced it. However, I believe it is to be found by consulting the Post Office directory. How many Mary Dempsters can there be in Edinburgh?’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  here was an easterly wind whipping off the water of Lochend as Sarah strived to match Raven’s long stride down Easter Road. She could feel moisture in the air and hoped it had been picked up from the loch rather than being an indicator that the dark-grey skies were about to unburden themselves.

  It was a Sunday afternoon, one of the few occasions when neither she nor Raven had duties elsewhere, and they were spending it in an attempt to locate the nurse who had worked for both Mrs Johnstone and the Porteous family. Raven had suggested Sarah might prefer to spend the day with her husband, which had made her uneasy. It might have been an idle remark, or even motivated by his own preference to go alone, but she could not help worrying that it indicated he was aware of Archie’s condition. Was he implying she ought to make the best of what little time they might have left together? Or was that her own guilt speaking?

  She felt compelled to play a part in clearing Dr Simpson’s name, for reasons she could not rightly articulate. She had told herself that it was imperative she accompany Raven so that Dr Simpson’s plight was not forgotten in Raven’s eagerness to pursue his own agenda. However, she could not deny that a part of her sought an excuse to leave the house. Time with Archie was increasingly bittersweet. He was weakening before her eyes, and every moment spent with him carried the promise of pain to come. God forgive her for thinking so, but there were times when she could not bear it.

  She heard Raven let out a frustrated sigh as they rounded
a bend in the road and a neat little cottage came into view, sitting in isolation amidst a well-tended garden with a view of the Forth.

  ‘Something irks you?’ she asked.

  ‘This does not look like the kind of home a nurse could afford to rent.’

  ‘Perhaps she has a husband who earns a good deal more,’ Sarah suggested. ‘There are some men who are happy for their wives to work, after all.’

  She enjoyed landing this blow upon him, but her pleasure was tempered by it returning her thoughts to Albany Street, where perhaps she ought to be right then.

  ‘A woman married to such a man would not choose to work as a nurse, believe me,’ Raven replied. ‘Any more than you would choose to keep working as a housemaid.’

  They had found three listings for ‘M. Dempster’ in the Post Office directory, and had come straight from the first one, who had turned out to be a retired book-keeper in Abbey Hill. From Raven’s misgivings about this cottage, it appeared he believed their quest would take them all the way to the third address, in Leith.

  ‘We have come this far, so we might as well enquire,’ Sarah reasoned.

  ‘Very well,’ he responded, with little enthusiasm.

  The cottage was set back from the road. Sarah thought she saw a flash of movement at one of the windows as they approached, but a cloud of blackbirds had flown past at the same time and she dismissed it as merely a reflection.

  Raven rapped on the door, his knuckles firm but not peremptory, as though aware he had little right to be disturbing anyone. He still had not developed the self-importance of the typical professional gentleman, a trait she found endearing in him.

  They waited in vain for a response, throughout which time Sarah became more convinced that the black flash in the window had indeed been birds.

  ‘Do you remember what she looked like?’ Sarah asked, it occurring to her that if she was disinclined to receive them, this Mary Dempster could very easily deny who she was, and they might be none the wiser. Sarah had once learned a harsh lesson concerning an individual presenting himself as someone he was not.