The Specimen Page 9

  As he worked gingerly at the threads of silk, Edward’s own eyes pricked with exhaustion and he battled to keep them open. Gwen stood behind Fergus with her hands on her servant’s shoulders, her body pushed up against the chair.

  No one said anything. The atrocious task in front of him seemed to demand an equally atrocious silence. Here I am, he thought, picking thread from eyelids. It was all too much of a mess, yet he had to find some way of persuading her to accept his offer. His hands fumbled. He thought of the wasted hours young women like Euphemia spent bending over needlework; it’d be enough to drive one to madness, perhaps. He wiped his face on his sleeve. If he could have bright daylight he could get this done much quicker. But the lamplight made everything uncertain. Was that silk thread or was that a bit of flesh? He had to decide. The blood oozed out of the puffled-up lids, and Fergus sat tight, bracing himself against the back of the chair. He’d be a mess in the morning. Gwen was watching Edward. He wanted to know what she was thinking. Was she making her decision, or was she lost in some other place not connected to where she stood? Edward cleared his throat several times just to make a noise. An hour passed and he wanted to rest, but it was better just to get on and finish the job.

  Chapter XVII

  THE TIMES, Wednesday, October 2, 1866.

  MURDER TRIAL AT THE OLD BAILEY.

  ON the second day of The Crown v. Pemberton, a veritable rumpus was observed outside the Central Criminal Court, as members of the public, keen to obtain entry to the gallery, had gathered in large numbers.

  Witnesses for the Prosecution were called after the opening. The first, Mr James Morrisson, said, “I was valet to Mr Scales since the date of his first marriage up to the time he went away. I was never given notice to leave the house, and I carried on there until the present time, or near enough.”

  Q: “And how did you become aware of the untimely passing of Mr Scales?”

  A: “I heard the noise, downstairs, in the morning. As I came down, I came upon the three men that I know to be the two police constables and her husband.”

  Q: “Do you mean Mr Pemberton, the prisoner’s husband, Mr Morrisson?”

  A: “I do that.”

  Q: “You had been at the deceased’s residence the night previous to this?”

  A: “Yes, and most of the day as well. Mr Scales was in town, and I knew that he’d be in need of my services. As it turned out, his wants were not many, and I had not much to attend to, so I retired. I was aware of his having visitors—a lady. I saw her enter the house about three in the afternoon. From an upstairs window I saw her approach the house, and Mr Scales let her in himself. He’d already said that he wouldn’t want to be disturbed at all should he get a visit from anyone, so I kept to the back of the house until I heard the door bang shut about seven or so. He did not ring for me all night, so I did not go near his room.”

  Mr Shanks for the Defence: “Is it not the case, Mr Morrisson, that you were not wanted by the deceased Mr Scales in the days leading up to his death, but that you forced your way into the property, in your own words, ‘to make his life a misery’?”

  A: “I never said so.”

  Q: “We shall see, Mr Morrisson.”

  Other witnesses included staff from households neighbouring the Victim’s address. Mrs Peters gave her evidence thus: “I have been housekeeper at the property adjoining the Scales’ residence for some years and have always noticed the quantity of visitors, or lack of them, going into that house. On the morning of the last but one day of July this year I saw a man approach the house and I heard his knocking. I remember this quite clearly as it was so persistent. I also recall it in detail as I remember wondering at the time that a person should knock so when the house was empty. Then, on looking out more carefully, I saw who was there, and, of course, I was surprised to see Mr Morrisson returned after such a long absence. Well, naturally as his banging and knocking was a nuisance I sent out Smythe, my footman.”

  The footman, Mr Smythe, then later gave his evidence: “I am Smythe, footman to the Picard household, and on the morning of July 30th I was instructed to go out and tell the gent making the racket that the house he was banging on was empty. I went out and I said to the man, who I knew to have been valet there long since but knew not on common terms, ‘Here, the place is empty, sir.’ In reply, he said to me that he knew Mr Scales was in there for certain and that he was d—d if he wasn’t going to get in there and have words. He was very agitated and of a very high colour in the face, and persisted with his banging. I stood there some minutes and tried to persuade him that his racket was useless, when, all of a sudden, the door opened, and I saw Mr Scales himself. Mr Scales did not seem at all pleased to see who was stood on his doorstep. ‘What the D—are you doing here?’ he says to Morrisson, and Morrisson says back to him, ‘More to the point, what the blazes are you doing here?’ except stronger words than that was used, sir. ‘I’ve more right to be in this property than you,’ says Morrisson to Mr Scales, and then he pushed his way over the doorstep, and Mr Scales done nothing to stop him. I asked Mr Scales if he would like me to assist and he said he’d deal with the matter himself. Just before he shut the door, I heard Morrisson telling him he’d stay there whether he liked it or not and that he’d make his life a misery while he was at it.”

  Doctor Alexander Jacobs gave his evidence: “I attended the body of Mr Edward Scales at around ten o’clock on the morning of the 7th of August. The body had been turned over, but, other than that, had not been moved. Evidence of the body having lain face down on the floor for some time was immediately apparent. Because of this effect, it was not at first obvious that any trauma had occurred to the body. However, on detailed examination later in the day, it became clear that death might have occurred through strangulation by application of a ligature to the neck.”

  Cross-examined by Mr Shanks:

  Q: “You said just now, that ‘death might have occurred by strangulation’. And yet you were not so reticent when you stated at the inquest that you were of the ‘firm opinion that the man had been strangled to death’. Are you saying that you have changed your mind? Or that you were not really sure in the first place?”

  A: “In retrospect, sir, I conclude that the amount of alcohol present in the body of the deceased could just as easily have caused death to occur. I do not, in retrospect, believe that the marks to the neck, which were slight, corresponded with other, more conclusive, cases of death by strangulation that I have attended during my career.”

  Chapter XVIII

  Carrick House. July 9, 1860.

  Edward woke to the sound of a mistle thrush. Its song just beyond the window joined with the last of the dawn chorus. Lying there, listening to the burbling melody, he remembered a comment of Gwen’s one morning; that the dawn chorus must be a wave of birdsong, as it moved from east to west, following the break of day in a relay of sound all over Europe, perhaps even the world, as it turned on its axis; and then, at nightfall, the sound coming back as a kind of inverted echo, west to east, the pinking and chipping sounds announcing the end of the day. Can you imagine, she’d said, if one could see it, as God must. It would be a tidal surge of sound, moving in an endless ripple of song across the globe.

  His body felt clammy and cold; he shifted around under the covers and tried to plump up his pillow. He’d asked her where she had read this theory. Damn. That a mere girl should happen upon a thought as profound as that. He’d taken her rather too roughly some minutes afterwards. And then when he had left her, he’d written down everything she had said in his notebook, suffused with a surge of love.

  There was the most God-awful smell in the room and the fust of mildew. The blankets felt heavy. He felt around underneath his hip for the hard object pressing against his skin. It slipped around in the folds of the rucked-up bed sheet. Edward listened to the thrush for a short while, turning the object in his fingers, wondering about the best thing to do. He did not turn his head to the left where he knew Gwen’s servant, H
arris, lay sleeping next to him. By God, of all the things that had happened to him, waking up next to a dwarf had to be one of the most novel. The object in his hand was about the size of a robin’s egg, its surface both smooth and pitted. He couldn’t think how a marble could have wound up in bed with him. But then, by the smell of the room it had not been in use for a long time. He couldn’t stay there. He heard stifled strokes of a clock somewhere striking five. Getting into his clothes haphazardly, Edward skimmed over what he could remember of the night before. He stuffed the marble into his waistcoat pocket. In the dim light he tried to check his own time against the chimes he thought he had counted. Edward sighed heavily. Gwen would not be swayed, he thought, now that this had happened. The situation was only slightly better than if her servant had been dead.

  As he tiptoed towards the door with his shoes in his hand, Harris spoke out from the bed. “Much obliged to you, sir, for all that you have done.”

  Edward paused. “Ah, yes. Don’t mention it. Take care of that eye,” and out of curiosity, he stepped back onto the square of carpet and moved over to the bed to peer at Fergus. “Look here, um, Harris. About this business.”

  Fergus hauled himself up and spoke as if he’d rehearsed his lines all night. “She hadn’t slept for about three or four days by yesterday, and I ain’t no medic, but I’d say that was half the problem, sir.”

  Edward sat down on the end of the bed, keeping his face turned away, so that he would not have to breathe in the rotten air expelled by Fergus. He felt sure his own breath smelled just as bad. He needed to spit and gargle.

  “Has she suffered from insomnia—I mean to say, been like that before?”

  “Not since I was at the house, sir.”

  “And do you know by any chance what the other half of the problem would be?”

  “A romantic involvement.”

  Edward frowned. “You know this for certain?”

  “I do.”

  “How unfortunate that she should take it out on you.”

  “It was an accident.”

  Edward was about to ask what kind of accident could possibly have resulted in the man having his eye sewn up when Fergus said, “You’ve your own romantic involvement, as well, sir. Though I think you’ve picked the more sensible of the two of them.”

  “What? Don’t presume to speak to me of things you know absolutely nothing about.”

  “Well, I doubt Miss Gwen is ever likely to try sewing your eyes up and leaving you in a cellar to freeze half to death, now is she?”

  “Have a care, Mr Harris. You’ve no business speaking about Miss Carrick like that. And I’ll thank you not to speak of her in those tones again.”

  Fergus shifted against the bolster. He breathed deeply through his nose. “South America’s a long way to go.”

  Edward narrowed his eyes, “Watch your tongue, Harris.”

  “So, did you never finish your special medical studies then? Last time I heard, you was going to be a famous doctor. Writing some big paper, she said, all about her. And then pouf! No more. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you abandoned Miss Jaspur for lack of interest. So, as I say, South America is a long way to go.”

  Edward stood up. “Who in hell’s name are you?” He reeled, felt himself sway.

  But Fergus had not finished. “Not saying I blame you, mind. Natalia snared all her men, including me. Don’t know though, what Miss Carrick would think about that.”

  Edward found himself grasping the little man’s neck and squeezing. “Tell me how you know these things.” Fill his vile little mouth with feathers and let him choke. He released the pressure, eased himself back. “How dare you.” Edward forced himself not to shout. “How dare you speak that woman’s name in the same breath.” He stared at Fergus. He’s lying, he thought, he’s lying. He must have said something to Euphemia; he must have done something, known something. Perhaps he’d been taunting Euphemia with information about her sister’s reputation. He’d infuriated Euphemia and she had acted on her anger. Edward breathed heavily, waiting for the impulse to grind Fergus into nothing to subside as the extent of Isobel’s involvement became clear. Edward knew he’d be a fool not to recognise it. Waiting for him to answer when he could see that he would not. “I should kill you now,” he said, “but I’ll not be a murderer for her.” He glanced at Fergus. “Yes. I know. I can see it.” He lowered his voice so that it was barely audible. “My wife sent you here. But mark my words, whatever she’s promised you, she will never honour it. You are out of your depth, and you’ll do well to keep your mouth shut. By God, you will.”

  The door handle turned, followed by a faint knocking. Edward went and put his ear to the door before opening it a crack.

  Gwen pushed open the door and pulled Edward into the corridor. “How is Mr Harris? Is the swelling very much worse?” Gwen’s own eyes were dark-circled and bloodshot.

  “It looks worse than it really is. A lot of bruising, that’s all. Your poultice has helped enormously.”

  Female hysteria, he thought. Common enough. Easy to handle that. Get some sedatives into the girl. But, by God, who was he trying to fool? He needed to get Gwen out of the house, away from everything. Isobel’s hand was all over this. Her poisonous tendrils had spilled over the boundary he had constructed and were threatening to choke everything. He turned the object around in his fingers, not realising that he’d taken it from his pocket. He could still persuade Gwen to go with him to Brazil. He felt Fergus’ presence in the closed room behind his back and he dropped the object into the folds of his pocket again and bent to tie his laces. As he straightened up, he saw Euphemia running at him. She had on a soiled nightdress and was screeching as she wielded a knitting needle in her hand.

  “For goodness sake, Euphemia,” Gwen bellowed, adding to the din. “Pull yourself together and stop behaving like such an idiot. This really is too much. Especially before breakfast—”

  As Edward stepped neatly aside to avoid Euphemia, he stuck out his foot and tripped her up. Her face was stuck all over with matted strands of hair, glistening with fresh mucous; and her features swollen and red-blotched from weeping. Her nightdress was unbuttoned down to her navel. Edward looked away as Gwen bent over her sister to try and tidy her.

  Edward helped Gwen take Euphemia to her bedroom. There was a strong smell of shit-filled chamberpot in there; it shrouded them in a clinging gossamer of stink as soon as the door was opened. Shafts of light hit the heaped chaos of clothes and torn papers. Gwen made her sister get into bed. Edward watched her tuck Euphemia into the covers as though nothing much more than a cold in the head had aggravated her temper. She’ll not come with me, he thought. I’ll not be able to drag her away from this.

  Gwen pulled the window down on its cord, letting in a gust of fresh air.

  “You didn’t by any chance mention my travelling plans to that Harris, did you?”

  Gwen picked her way over the mess on the floor towards Edward. (She stooped to pick up a visiting card. The photograph showed a beautiful, clean-shaven young man. She turned the card over. The printing was scratched out.) Distractedly, she said, “No, I never discuss private things with—Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. He was mumbling something last night, probably just talking in his sleep. I may have got the wrong end of the stick.”

  “Susan will deal with all of this.” Gwen waved her arm over the mess, letting the card drop. “Let’s go downstairs now.”

  “By the way,” Edward said, “I came across this in your guest room—an artefact from your childhood, perhaps?” He took her wrist gently and put the marble into her hand. Puzzled, Gwen glanced at it briefly before shutting the door behind them.

  Fergus heard the commotion outside the bedroom door but did not pay much attention to it. He had drawn the curtains wide open and pulled back the covers from the bed. It must be hidden in a fold. He turned both pillows out of their cases and shook everything. He scrabbled around the mattress like a terrier looking for its rat. T
hen he got down and inspected the underneath of the bed. He lifted the carpet at its edges. He shook out all the bedding piece by piece, and folded every sheet and blanket in turn. Not an easy thing to do. His arms ached. He tussled with the panic bubbling in his throat and sat down on the heap of folded bedding to get his breath back. He began to doubt the memory of putting it under his pillow in the small hours before dawn. Mr Scales had been snoring like a drunk. He had not imagined it. He had fallen asleep with the balas diamond in his fist. He got up off the pile of bedclothes and began to unfold and shake out the sheets again, though he knew it was now a waste of time. His tears stung, and they blocked his already impaired vision. He poured the salty water from the jug into the bowl Gwen had set down and then put on the clothes which had been laid out for him the night before.

  It was time to reassess his situation. This bit of theatre was over; there were better things to worry about. Bugger. He had to find it. He couldn’t leave without it.

  Edward looked about him in the library where he was waiting for Gwen to return after speaking at length to her maid. It had become clear to him that Gwen’s sister had chosen the maid’s one night off in the month to cause her havoc in the household. His own brief first appraisal of Susan at Carrick House that morning had been that she was not the kind of woman you would want to have about the house if you chose to misbehave in such a manner. Her hands were large and square. And she had an attitude he would never seek to cross in a month of her days off.

  The library was at the front of the house and its window had an excellent view of the drive; the fields either side of it with their crops of barley and flax were full of flowers; swallows skimmed low for insects over the heads of the colourful blooms and ripening seed heads.

  Gwen shut the door behind her, and Edward turned away from his gazing. He had been lost in his situation for a moment, but now he tried to guess what Gwen had to say. He waited for a moment and when she said nothing he asked if there was anything more that he could do to help. She shook her head. “I’ll go with you to Brazil, Edward. You need not worry that my sister’s hysterics will detain me here.”