As expected, the opening of the inquest on Henry Palmer’s death the next morning was a brief formality in which evidence was taken of identification and the proceedings were adjourned to await the results of the post-mortem examination.
That morning’s newspapers brought an interesting announcement. The Life House would formally close its doors in four days’ time, when the last body was removed for burial. The property had been sold to an investor and once the business ceased, the building would be torn down and the land used to construct dwellings.
Frances realised that if she wanted to look inside the Life House she had very little time in which to achieve it. Dr Bonner had left London, and Dr Warrinder and Mr Fairbrother would not permit any infringement of the rules. She thought about trying to talk her way in when the new orderly, Renfrew, the only man who had not met her, was in charge, but entry was allowed only by application to a director, and entrants must be medically qualified or be medical students.
There was only one way she might achieve her object, she must persuade a doctor to take her into the building and vouch for her, and the only man she could reasonably ask to do this was Dr Carmichael. She would have to avoid any objections that might be raised to her sex by doing something she had promised herself she would never do again. Frances composed two letters, which were duly delivered, and then she and Sarah went shopping.
That afternoon, Frances, accompanied by Sarah who, with her features determinedly devoid of all emotion, was clutching a large parcel, called on Cedric and explained what she had been unable to put in writing.
‘Let me understand this,’ said Cedric, making little effort to conceal his amusement. ‘You wish me to instruct you in the art of appearing masculine.’ Joseph tilted an eyebrow in their direction. ‘I have told you the story, have I not, Joseph, of my first meeting with Miss Doughty, or should I say Mr Frank Williamson, as she seemed to me then.’
‘Many times,’ Joseph murmured.
‘It was not something I did willingly and I do not do it willingly now,’ said Frances firmly. ‘I know it is a grave risk, but I am driven by necessity. I am aware that if I am to do it, I should do it the best way I can, which is why I have asked your advice. I suspect that at my first attempt I was a very feminine boy.’
‘Oh, you were, you were,’ said Cedric nostalgically, ‘but really I can’t imagine why you feel you need lessons in being the man. You have obviously been practicing it since, and you already have the art.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘But I espied Mr Williamson only the other day and I thought he cut a very masculine figure. I decided not to hail you as I thought you might be about some secret task, but you were very convincing.’
Frances stared at him. ‘You are mistaken. I have never, since the time we first met, donned gentlemen’s clothing.’
‘Oh? But I was quite sure it was you! The features, the walk, it was so like. If it was not you it must have been a relation.’
Frances was suddenly dry-mouthed and spoke with an effort. ‘And – what was this man doing when you saw him?’
‘Boarding a train at Paddington station.’
‘To what destination?’
‘I couldn’t say. My dear Miss Doughty, you look quite unwell. Please be seated and Joseph will bring you a glass of sherry.’
Frances told him then – not all that there was to tell, as there were some things she could hardly bear to speak of. She said that she had not long ago discovered that her mother, whom she had supposed to be long dead, was quite possibly still alive, and that she had a younger brother, Cornelius Doughty, whom she had never met.
‘Of course, I would like to know my family, but I am so afraid that they might not wish to know me that I have as yet made no attempt to discover where they are living. You will think me a coward, now.’
‘Not a bit of it!’ said Cedric. ‘You are the bravest lady I know and how I wish I had hailed the young man I saw, or taken more notice of his train. But I promise you that if I see him again, I will not make that mistake. Now then, I see a little colour return to your cheeks, so let us talk about what you require me to do. Does that parcel contain the suit you wore previously?’
‘No, that belonged to my late brother, Frederick, and was, I realise now, an indifferent fit. I have purchased a new suit of clothing that I believe will be better and Sarah can undertake to make any necessary adjustments.’
‘I see, and – er – now this is a delicate question so you must forgive me – do you wish to have the garment altered so as to conceal your sex, or would you prefer it to be of a masculine nature but of a feminine cut?’
‘Why would a woman want to dress as a man, but appear to be female?’ said Frances in surprise.
‘Indeed,’ said Cedric solemnly. ‘I am sorry to have mentioned it, how foolish of me.’
‘I wish to masquerade as a man for professional reasons and must, therefore, appear to be a man. I would like you to instruct me on my gait and carriage.’
‘Of course. Well, if you could retire to my dressing room and transform yourself we will set about it.’
Cedric’s dressing room was a small marvel, with rows of tastefully cut suits, snowy shirts, brightly polished shoes, jars of scented pomade to sleek their owner’s unruly blond locks, crystal spray bottles of cologne and trays of discreet masculine jewellery. ‘I do not think,’ said Frances, as Sarah helped her dress, ‘that however hard I was to try I could ever be such an elegant gentleman as Mr Garton.’
‘You look good enough to me,’ said Sarah.
‘He is quite the old-fashioned dandy!’
‘Oh?’ said Sarah. ‘I didn’t know they had a name for it.’
‘Still, since I am to represent a medical student, a certain economy of attire would seem to be appropriate.’
Eventually, after forcing her long hair into a hat, Frances emerged, and stood before Cedric. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Now you must advise me on what else I need to do.’
He gazed at her for a while, an unreadable expression in his eyes. ‘Very little,’ he said at last.
‘But does she look like a man?’ demanded Sarah.
‘A youth,’ said Cedric. ‘A handsome youth with all the promise of young manhood before him. Well, let us proceed.’
Although Frances’ limbs were decently enough covered she felt uncomfortable. The fact that the shape of her legs could be seen, and the absence of the accustomed weight and bulk of skirts and petticoats suggested to her that she was proposing to step out in a public street clad in little more than her underlinen. Her previous masquerade had been made out of a sense of desperation, but this was more cold-blooded, more planned, and her buried concerns were re-emerging. Cedric asked her to walk about the room and at first she tried to strut in what she hoped was a manly fashion, but he quickly instructed her to stop and asked her instead to take her natural walk so that he could correct it. Frances found it hard not to think of how she was moving, but as she walked, began to feel once again that delightful sense of freedom she had experienced when she had worn her brother’s suit. How easy it would be, thus clad, to run down the street! How she might be able to jump and climb and ride a bicycle, and a thousand things she might never even have thought of! She could do things that even Miss Dauntless would not contemplate.
It was an hour before Cedric had instilled in her the ability to walk, sit down, stand up, and put things into her pockets and take them out again, as if she had been a boy from birth.
‘It is fortunate that you do not have a high voice, or, as so many girls do, have been accustomed to speaking like small children in order to attract the protection of men. Your voice will do well enough if you are careful.’
‘I am very grateful for your assistance,’ said Frances, ‘and I know I can count on you to keep this secret.’
‘Tempting as it would be to tell all my friends about this afternoon, which would greatly add to my notoriety – if that were possible – I can assure you that you may count on my silence.’
Although the resumed inquest on the death of Henry Palmer was not due for a few days, Frances felt sure that Mr Fairbrother would tell her what she wanted to know about the post-mortem examination if she demanded it with enough confidence, revealing the conclusions before he had the opportunity of wondering whether or not he should.
When she questioned him, however, she found that there was no need for either forcefulness or subtle persuasion; he recognised with a wry smile that it would be simpler for him to comply. Frances learned that there was no doubt at all in Dr Collin’s mind that Henry Palmer had died after being struck on the head three times with a heavy object, perhaps some sort of carpentry tool. Only one weapon had been used. The first blow had probably been struck while Palmer was in a standing position and would have been enough to make him dizzy, but would not have been fatal. In all probability he would have fallen. He had been on all fours or lying down when a second blow had been struck and certainly prone, his face pressed to the ground when the third and fatal blow fell. The skull was not so much crushed as punctured, as if the weapon had a heavy end like a hammer. Fairbrother confirmed that there was no object in the Life House that might answer that description.
Frances was also able to elicit from Mr Fairbrother that he was attending a course of lectures and would not be at the Life House in the next few days, but that Hemsley and Renfrew had matters in hand, and Dr Warrinder would also call. This was a great relief, since the idea that she might encounter Mr Fairbrother during her excursion to the Life House in male attire appalled her. As long as her visit occurred during Mr Renfrew’s period of duty she would be safe as she did not think Dr Warrinder, even if he did arrive, would recognise her if she kept her distance and took care not to face him directly. She asked Fairbrother if he knew the identity of the new owner, but he did not. The sale was very nearly complete and it was anticipated that the keys would be handed over shortly.
The next morning, Frances, as Mr Frank Williamson, medical student, awaited Dr Carmichael. That gentleman, who had been told what to expect, must have convinced himself that Frances had not been serious when she had described her intentions or thought that, on sober reflection, she would abandon the idea. It was with some sense of shock that he saw her in male attire. ‘Have you thought of going on the stage?’ he said at last.
‘Is that the only destination for a woman who dresses as a man?’
‘That and prison, I would have thought. I am really not sure that this should be attempted.’
‘If it is a question of your reputation, I believe I am the least of your dangers,’ said Frances.
‘What have you been told?’ he demanded.
‘It involves chloroform,’ said Frances. ‘Do I need to say more?’
He looked angry, but made no denials. ‘No, you do not. Well, let us get this done quickly. If you are found out I can always say that I was deceived. Your masquerade is sufficiently convincing, no doubt from considerable practice. I am only thankful that your companion will not be accompanying us dressed as a soldier!’
They travelled up by cab, and on the way Frances explained that she was looking for the location of the death of Henry Palmer. ‘I cannot anticipate the verdict of the coroner’s jury,’ she said, ‘but it is possible that he may have been the victim of foul play. I have heard rumours that he was struck several times on the head by something resembling a hammer. I suspect that he was killed very close to the Life House.’
‘Surely there will be nothing to see after all this time?’ said Carmichael.
‘I fear you may be right, but at least I should look.’
Before they approached the door of the Life House chapel, Frances searched carefully for any sign of a struggle, but there was nothing in the lane that led south to the canal, or any of the little ways around the building or the path that led to the front door. Even if Palmer had been killed there, the passage of time had erased any traces. Carmichael knocked at the chapel door and they were met by Renfrew, a small man who resembled a nocturnal rodent, down to the dark glittering eyes, pale whiskers and pink nose. He said little, but studied the appointment book in his hands and, noting that Dr Carmichael and Mr Williamson were expected, examined the doctor’s card, and nodded approval. They were told to go to the front door and wait, and a few moments later he ushered them in. The office area was mainly occupied by a small desk and a coat stand, and there were shelves of leather-bound books; medical volumes, ledgers and record books. A glass-fronted cabinet held a few restorative items: brandy, a carafe of water, and some smelling salts. So meagre were the contents, so inadequate to deal with the kind of emergencies the Life House might have faced, that Frances felt sure that this was intended not for the use of the patients but visitors.
‘That is only a very small part of what we have here,’ said Renfrew quickly, seeing her expression. ‘On the ward we have an extensive supply of apparatus and materials for the treatment of cases of doubtful death. I am sure you would like to examine them.’
Carmichael said that he would be very interested to do so and Frances nodded her enthusiastic assent, then Renfrew unlocked the door that led to the wards.
Carmichael glanced at Frances with some concern, afraid that at any moment the brandy, water and smelling salts would have to be pressed into action, but she had seen and smelled death before, and death, moreover, without the benefit of carbolic. The odour of putrefaction, whatever one did, could never be disguised. It was oddly sweet, but in a way that caught at the back of the throat and however much one resisted, it was like a sickly caress that impelled nausea. Overlying it was the sour stench of disinfectant that stung the nostrils and, thought Frances, helped matters more by providing an unpleasant distraction than anything else.
There was a curtain acting as a partition across the main ward and four beds on either side, but there were only two patients, one male and one female, segregated in the anticipation that a revival might occur. Frances saw that the ‘beds’ were little more than mortuary slabs, although dressed with sheets and blankets. The corpses, for she could not think of them as anything else, were clothed and arranged like living patients, and though the heads were supported on pillows there was a tendency for them to drop back and mouths to sag open in a manner that could only suggest that life was extinct. Around each body was a mass of foliage and flowers, tubs and pots of growing shrubs, plants that climbed and straggled, their tendrils tumbling over the side of the beds and dipping to the floor. Each corpse revealed one naked foot, and tied to the big toe was a long cord leading to a bell that hung from the wall behind, another cord also being connected to a finger.
Renfrew proudly threw back the double doors of a tall cupboard, revealing blankets and towels, sponges, lint, galvanic apparatus, massage devices, hypodermic syringes, ammonia, naphthalene, ether and camphor, linseed meal and linen cloths for making poultices, cantharides blisters, cupping and scarification devices, stethoscopes, equipment for tapping fluid from body cavities, bottles of fragrant oils, suppositories, pessaries, and everything that a surgeon might need for performing a tracheotomy.
Frances looked over the contents of the cupboard, restraining herself from making any observations as she was a little nervous of speaking, but trying to look deeply interested, even impressed. Renfrew hovered beside them, then after a while, seeing that they did not need his assistance, sidled away and commenced his inspection of the male corpse, though Frances thought that testing for pulse and breath on an object with sunken eyes and already showing the darkening stains of putrefaction about the lips, was optimistic.
‘I see no signs that anything occurred here,’ she said softly to Carmichael, ‘but it is not as light as I would wish because of the small windows. There is a lamp in the cupboard. We need to use it.’
Carmichael asked Renfrew to get the lamp. He looked surprised but left his duties, delved into the cupboard and extracted and lit the lamp. ‘Is there anything I can assist you with?’ he asked.
‘We will tour the premises and make any enquiries later,’ said Carmichael. Renfrew nodded and went back to his work.
‘Suppose Palmer was killed here?’ said Frances. ‘What would I look for?’
‘Hmm, well I was once called to a scene where a thief had cheated his confederate and as a result of the falling out, had been attacked with a jemmy. The first blow led to a crushing indentation in the skull, but in the room where it occurred there were no bloodstains. The skin was broken and blood had come to the surface, but it had not splashed on the walls. The victim then staggered into another room where he collapsed and his erstwhile friend completed the business. There was blood only in the second room. It was very much thrown about the place by the weapon.’
‘So,’ said Frances, ‘the first blow simply starts the bleeding, but then the others scatter the blood.’ She began to walk slowly around the ward, holding the lantern up to better see the floor and the walls, and the beds. Renfrew looked puzzled, but shrugged and went on with his work. Frances had gone around the perimeter lifting the lantern high then lowering it to scan every surface, before she saw what she had been looking for. It was in the crevice where the doorjamb met the wall by the exit to the office; something small and dark that resembled a clot of blood. She held the lamp close. ‘What do you think?’ she asked Carmichael.
Renfrew abandoned his work and came over to speak to them. ‘May I assist you, gentlemen?’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Carmichael, ‘please do not let us interrupt you.’
‘I was wondering what had attracted your attention,’ said Renfrew with a suspicious glance, and started peering closely at the wall. At that moment, there was a faint tinkling of a bell. Renfrew jumped as if he had been stung and hurried away.
Carmichael turned and stared at Frances, who was standing behind him, smiling. Together they examined the dark brown gobbet. ‘It does look like blood; the colour and consistency and degree of drying are right,’ said Carmichael. ‘Whether or not it is human it is impossible to know.’
‘The fact that the spot is by the door that leads to the office suggests that Palmer was either entering or leaving the ward when it happened. But there were three blows. This blood must have come from either the second or the third. If this is Palmer’s blood, then he died on this very spot.’
‘You may well be right, but a single drop – that makes it very hard to prove anything.’
‘There should have been more.’
‘Oh yes, a great deal more.’
‘Then the wall and floor have been washed. It is only because of the dark shadows in this crevice that this was missed.’ She thought further. ‘Dr Carmichael, I would like you to go and inspect the chapel.’
‘Certainly. Any more instructions?’ he added with more than a hint of sarcasm, which Frances chose to ignore.
‘Yes, take Renfrew with you and engage him in conversation while you are there.’
Carmichael rolled his eyes, but complied. Renfrew had completed his tests of the male corpse and was staring at Frances as if he suspected her of having pulled a cord while his back was turned, in which suspicion he was entirely correct. When Carmichael asked to see the chapel, Renfrew paused, and seeing that Frances did not intend to accompany them, issued a curt instruction for her to touch nothing. He and Carmichael left by the connecting door, while Frances continued to stare at the spot of blood, trying to imagine what had occurred. An assailant with a hammer or a cudgel, bringing it down on the man’s head, creating a depression in the skull, crushing tissues, the wound pooling into a well of blood. The cudgel rising and coming down again, and this time striking the crushed and bloody flesh; drops of blood flying out, spattering the wall, the floor and the assailant. The cudgel, its ugly head now sticky with a mess of blood and flesh rising again for the third blow … Frances followed its path upwards with her eyes, raising the lantern again, but higher this time, not looking at the wall, but the painted ceiling of the room and there she saw them, thin streaks and droplets of blood, like lines of stitching running across the paintwork, high above her head, where the weapon had thrown it off and where whoever had cleaned the walls had failed to look.
Through the thin walls of the partition Frances could clearly hear Carmichael in conversation with Renfrew. She took a coin from her pocket, a penny piece, and dropped it on the floor. When it had finished bouncing and rolling she picked it up again. When Carmichael and Renfrew returned she said, ‘I hope I didn’t alarm you – a penny fell from my pocket.’
‘Oh, so that was what it was,’ said Carmichael, ‘I thought another one had woken up.’
Renfrew grunted, but went to tend the flowers.
‘Look up at the ceiling,’ said Frances. ‘It’s hard to see without the lantern light, but there is more blood there. Is that what you would expect to see?’
He nodded. ‘Oh yes. There was murder done here all right.’
‘Dr Carmichael,’ she said, ‘I am going to take a cab home and return to my proper attire without delay, but I want you to remain here and send Mr Renfrew with an urgent message to the police.’
Frances was now certain that both Dr Bonner and Mr Darscot had a great deal of explaining to do.