JANE CLARK STOOD at Cecilia’s bedroom window and watched Dr Harrison, a physician from nearby Streatham carrying a black medical bag, as he walked down the flagstones to his waiting horse and buggy. Turning toward the bed, she studied Cecilia, propped up on pillows under fresh linen with her eyes closed. Silently approaching her bedside, she took Cecilia’s limp hand, cold to the touch, and leaned down to kiss her pale cheek. ‘There, there,’ she murmured as Cecilia stirred. ‘Try to sleep.’
Opening her eyes, Cecilia said, ‘Did the doctor speak to Charles?’
Mrs Clark shook her head. ‘I merely advised Charles that you were not feeling well and instructed the doctor not to disturb him.’
Cecilia nodded and said, ‘Does the doctor know that I—?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘I said nothing about it. But of course you understand why you may never be able to bear a child.’
Brushing a tear from the corner of her eye, Cecilia said, ‘Yes. Under the circumstances, it’s just as well.’ Despite her shock at the loss of the baby, Cecilia’s dominant emotion was relief. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘you must inform Charles.’
Mrs Clark found Cranbrook in his study, sucking on his pipe and reworking a legal brief at his desk. ‘What is it,’ he said gruffly, giving her a look of frosty annoyance as she stood in the doorway.
‘It’s Mrs Cranbrook.’
‘Is she ill?’
‘No. She’s miscarried.’
‘What!’ said Cranbrook, jumping up from his chair. ‘Lost the child?’ Mrs Clark nodded. ‘Damn,’ said Cranbrook under his breath. ‘I knew she wasn’t taking proper care of herself. I warned her! Damn her selfishness and stupidity!’ he said with a shake of his fist.
‘It’s important that she rest,’ said Mrs Clark calmly. ‘She’s lost blood and is very weak.’ Cranbrook glared at her. ‘And she requests that I stay with her at night until she’s recovered.’
‘Oh, she does?’ said Cranbrook. ‘And where will I sleep?’
‘She suggests the spare bedroom at the top of the stairs.’
‘Very well,’ said Cranbrook with a malevolent glare. ‘You may go now.’
Following a light supper of consommé and toast, served to her in bed, Cecilia had the strength to rise and enjoy a long, indolent soak in her claw-foot bathtub. Emerging from her bath enfolded by a large towel, she encountered Mary Ann turning down her bed.
‘Do you need anything, ma’am?’ said the maid.
‘Yes,’ said Cecilia. ‘A glass of sherry.’ After donning her nightgown and brushing out her hair, seated on the cushion in her boudoir as she drank her wine, Cecilia entered the bedroom, where she found Mrs Clark in a chair at the foot of the bed, wearing a robe with her dark hair down on her shoulders.
‘I’ll tuck you in,’ said Mrs Clark, rising from her chair as Cecilia walked to the bed and slipped under the covers. Checking to make sure the door was firmly shut, Mrs Clark pulled the coverlet up to Cecilia’s chin, bent down and gently kissed her. Then, with a tender look, she doused the gaslights and returned to her chair in the darkness.
After a week had passed, during which Mrs Clark shared Cecilia’s bed at night and Charles Cranbrook had virtually no contact with his wife, Cecilia dressed before nine on a Sunday morning in the hope of encountering him over breakfast. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she glanced through the partly open door into the small guest bedroom, listening to the church bells in the village and observing a water pitcher and glass on a bedside table and Charles’s riding boots at the foot of the neatly made single bed, a room, she reflected, she had never entered. Descending the stairs, she found her husband at the dining-room table.
‘Hallo,’ he said, looking up from his newspaper and plate of eggs and kippers. ‘Looking hale and hearty.’
‘I’m better,’ she said. ‘Much better.’ She rang a small silver bell to summon the kitchen maid, who appeared after a moment and said, ‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘I’ll join Mr Cranbrook for breakfast. An omelette with bacon.’
Taking a piece of toast from the rack, Cranbrook smeared it with marmalade, took a bite and a sip of tea as he reverted to his newspaper. After a few minutes of silence, the maid reappeared, served Cecilia her eggs and bacon and poured her a cup of tea from the pot. Cecilia stirred in milk and sugar and sampled the omelette. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, picking up a folded sheet at Cranbrook’s elbow.
‘A letter from my stepfather,’ said Cranbrook, snatching it away from her. ‘Taking me to task for speculating in the stock market.’
‘How much did you lose?’
‘None of your business, nor his. I intend to send him a shirty reply.’
‘Charles,’ said Cecilia after eating a few bites.
‘Yes,’ said Cranbrook, continuing to read his paper.
‘I’m going on holiday to Worthing.’
‘What? To Worthing?’
‘Yes. Mrs Clark is there now, looking for suitable lodgings. The doctor says it will do me good.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Cranbrook, tossing his napkin on the table. ‘There’s nothing the matter with you.’
‘But why should you object? It’s only with Mrs Clark, for at most a week.’
‘Because of the blasted expense.’ He glared at her. ‘We’re piling up debts, and all you can think to do is spend, spend, spend.’
‘That’s grossly unfair,’ said Cecilia, pushing back from the table. ‘The doctor says I need rest.’
‘You can rest here,’ said Cranbrook, rising from his chair, ‘and spare the expense of a holiday with dear Mrs Clark. And let this serve notice I intend to expel that woman from your bedchamber.’
‘You vile creature!’ said Cecilia. ‘I should never have married you!’
‘You’ll learn to obey me!’ said Cranbrook. He suddenly lunged and slapped her hard across the face.
‘Ooh,’ cried Cecilia as she crumpled to the floor, where she lay cradling her head in her arms, moaning. For a moment Cranbrook stared down at her, his mouth curled into a disdainful frown, before tramping noisily from the room.
‘The holiday to Worthing is scotched,’ said Cecilia, reclining on the chaise in her bedroom in an embroidered blue silk robe.
‘We’re not going?’ said Mrs Clark, just returned from the Balham station. ‘Why, I’ve arranged a room for us at a seaside hotel.’
‘Charles forbids it.’
Mrs Clark took a step closer, a look of disbelief in her eyes. ‘Cissie – what happened to your face?’
Running her tongue over her swollen lip, she said, ‘He hit me.’
‘My God.’
‘Knocked me to the floor.’ Tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. ‘Oh, Janie, I’ve got to find a way out of this marriage.’
‘I don’t see how,’ said Mrs Clark, walking over and stroking Cecilia’s hair. ‘Unless something were to happen to that wicked brute.’
‘Well, he’s gone into town to his club. Staying the night.’
‘You should dress,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘And then we’ll take the carriage on a nice drive through the common.’
The following day Charles Cranbrook arrived home unusually early. That morning he had suffered a severe attack of nausea on his way from his room at the club to his office, becoming violently ill on the pavement, but had recovered sufficiently to continue to work and even consume a brandy over lunch at White’s with his law partner Edward Hope, celebrating a minor courtroom victory. Arriving at The Priory, Cranbrook changed into his riding coat and boots and instructed MacDonald, the gardener, who, after Griffiths’ dismissal was also responsible for looking after the stable, to saddle the gelding.
‘He’s already been exercised, sir,’ objected MacDonald.
‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes,’ said Cranbrook as he swung into the saddle.
Over an hour had passed, however, when Cranbrook rode unsteadily into the paddock. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ said MacDonald, taking the reins.
Cranbrook, visibly shaken, slowly climbed from the horse, whose haunches were dark with lather. ‘As we were leaving the common,’ he said, ‘Cremorne bolted. Ran for four miles, all the way to Mitcham, before I could stop him.’ With a wince he began walking painfully toward the house.
Cecilia found him an hour later, collapsed in a chair in his study, deathly pale with a dazed expression, still wearing his riding boots. ‘Cremorne ran off with me,’ he muttered as Cecilia gave him a concerned look.
‘I’ll have Sawyers help you with your boots,’ she said, ‘and then draw you a bath. You look unwell.’
‘I was sick this morning,’ he said. ‘But then I felt better and had lunch with Hope at White’s.’ When the time came for his bath, Cranbrook was too weak or too ill to climb the stairs, and so was helped to his feet and half-carried upstairs by the butler, who steered him to the small guest room and laid him on the bed. After an hour’s rest, he’d regained enough strength to make his way downstairs, where he found Cecilia having supper with Mrs Clark in the dining-room, mutton chops with French green beans, accompanied by a decanter of sherry.
‘Are you better?’ said Cecilia, reaching for the bell to summon the maid.
‘I suppose,’ said Cranbrook, wearily slumping in a chair.
‘Bring Mr Cranbrook a plate,’ Cecilia instructed the maid when she appeared after a moment. ‘Wine?’ she asked Cranbrook.
‘Yes. I’ll have a glass of claret.’
Cecilia refilled her glass, briefly exchanged looks with Mrs Clark, and then continued eating in silence. The maid returned with a plate and glass of red wine for her master, who summoned the strength to carve a few bites of mutton and consume a portion of his vegetables. Mrs Clark, having finished her supper, seemed to be watching him, which caused him to avert his eyes. After the lapse of five minutes of awkward silence, Cecilia downed the last of her sherry, rose from the table and said, ‘I’m going upstairs to undress.’ Cranbrook wordlessly looked up at her.
‘Good evening,’ said Mrs Clark, as she rose from her chair. ‘Rest well.’
Cecilia, wearing a robe over her nightgown, stood before the mirror over her dressing-table, brushing out her hair. Seeing Mrs Clark’s reflection in the glass, she turned and said, ‘Janie – send for Mary Ann and ask her to bring me a glass of Madeira.’ Mrs Clark, still fully dressed, walked to the staircase, pausing to glance into the empty guest bedroom before descending. Avoiding the dining-room, she delivered the request to the maid and returned to Cecilia’s bedroom. Mary Ann, locating the bottle of Madeira in the butler’s pantry, poured a glass and walked to the stairs where she encountered Charles Cranbrook with his hand on the banister. ‘Pardon me, sir,’ she said as she hurried past him, aware of his strong disapproval of his wife’s habit of drinking after dinner. Too weak to object, Cranbrook slowly made his way upstairs.
After delivering the wine, Mary Ann tidied up her mistress’s boudoir, careful to properly hang the dresses and fold the many robes and bed jackets, and then entered the bedroom, where she found Cecilia under the covers, evidently asleep, and Mrs Clark in her chair at the foot of the bed, knitting by the light of a candle. Bidding her goodnight, Mary Ann left the room, gently closed the door, and started down the stairs. Halfway down, she heard footfalls and looked back as the door to the spare bedroom swung open and Cranbrook, clad only in his nightshirt, staggered out. ‘Cecilia!’ he shouted, clutching his throat. ‘Cecilia! Hot water!’ As Cranbrook stumbled back into his room, the maid hurried up the stairs and knocked on Cecilia’s door. Hearing no answer, she turned the knob and peered into the darkened room, lit only by the coals burning on the grate. Cecilia was sleeping, but Mrs Clark, fully dressed, remained in her chair at the foot of the bed. ‘What is it?’ she stage-whispered.
‘Come quick!’ said Mary Ann. ‘It’s Mr Cranbrook. He’s ill!’
Mrs Clark rose and hurried to the spare bedroom with the maid following. The door was ajar and, though the room was dark, Mrs Clark could see and hear Cranbrook leaning out the window with his hands on the sill, violently retching. He turned toward her with a wild look and again shouted, ‘Water!’ Attempting to stand, his knees gave way, and he collapsed on the floor, unconscious. Kneeling beside him, Mrs Clark looked back at the maid, frozen in the doorway, and said, ‘Turn on the lights!’ She turned Cranbrook on his side and placed her hand on his chest, detecting a faint, irregular heartbeat. When the gaslights flickered on she briefly studied his pale face and listened to his laboured breathing. ‘Go downstairs,’ she calmly instructed the maid, ‘and fetch hot water and some dry mustard.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Be quick about it.’
After some minutes, Mary Ann returned with a water pitcher and small bowl, which she lowered with trembling hands to the carpet beside Cranbrook’s still form. Mrs Clark, kneeling beside him, poured hot water from the pitcher into the bowl, which contained powdered mustard, and stirred the mixture with her finger. Lifting the back of Cranbrook’s head, she managed to pour some of the concoction down his throat, which caused him immediately to vomit. ‘Ooh,’ said Mary Ann, turning away. After trying unsuccessfully to shake him awake, Mrs Clark looked up at Mary Ann and said, ‘Find Sawyers and tell him to send for Dr Harrison in Streatham. Tell him Mr Cranbrook is deathly ill and that the doctor must come at once!’
Mary Ann started down the stairs, hesitated, and changed her mind, thinking the master’s dying and no one’s awakened his wife to tell her! Bursting into Cecilia’s room, she ran up to the bed and said, ‘Wake up, ma’am! It’s Mr Cranbrook!’
‘What!’ exclaimed Cecilia, disoriented from a wine-induced deep slumber. ‘Charles?’ She sprang from the bed and raced to the spare bedroom. ‘What is it?’ she screamed at Mrs Clark, who was still kneeling beside Charles’s prostrate form. His eyes were shut and nightshirt soiled with vomit and the yellow mustard solution.
‘He’s alive, but barely,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘He must have swallowed chloroform; I smelt it on his breath. See the bottle there.’ Cecilia glanced at a medicine bottle on the mantel containing a small quantity of green liquid. ‘I’ve sent Sawyers for Dr Harrison,’ added Mrs Clark.
‘Dr Harrison?’ said Cecilia. ‘Too far. We must get someone local.’ She ran from the room, shouting ‘Sawyers!’ from the top of the stairs. Hurrying down, she found the front door partly open and a lamp burning in the passage. ‘Sawyers!’ she called.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The butler, clad in a dressing-gown, appeared from the pantry.
‘Has someone gone for Dr Harrison?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I sent MacDonald.’
‘We must get a doctor from Balham. Doctor Moore is only ten minutes away.’
‘I’ll get cracking.’
It was well past midnight when the carriage bringing Dr Harrison from Streatham turned into The Priory drive. Taking his black bag, he hurried to the entrance, ablaze with lights, and up the staircase. Cecilia was sequestered in her bedroom with Mrs Clark, and Mary Ann was with Sawyers in the kitchen brewing coffee, leaving Dr Moore, a short, thin man with grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard, alone with Cranbrook, who lay motionless on the bed, wearing a clean nightshirt. Taking his stethoscope from the bag, Dr Harrison listened to Cranbrook’s weak heartbeat and then opened his eyes and peered at his dilated pupils.
‘Well,’ he said, turning to Dr Moore. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘In my judgement,’ said Moore, ‘he’s been poisoned. According to the women who found him, he was craving water and vomiting violently before collapsing and losing consciousness.’
‘Poison,’ said Harrison, gazing down on Cranbrook’s spectral pallor, his skin cold and clammy to the touch.
‘One of the women insists he swallowed chloroform,’ said Moore, pointing to the almost empty bottle. ‘But I doubt it. No one could choke the stuff down.’
‘Unconscious,’ said Harrison, ‘violently ill, pulse weak but racing. I doubt he’ll live till morning.’ Summoning Cecilia, accompanied by Mrs Clark, to the sickroom, Dr Harrison asked if she could provide an explanation for her husband’s symptoms.
‘Why, I suppose,’ she said, ‘he’s suffered a heart attack. He went for a ride this afternoon, and his horse bolted. It left him weak and unwell. And Charles’s prone to fits of fainting, and was worried about stocks and shares.’
‘Your husband is gravely ill,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m afraid he’s dying, and not from consuming chloroform, nor a heart attack. The symptoms are those of an irritant poison, such as arsenic.’
‘Arsenic?’ said Cecilia, holding a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God.’ Taking Harrison’s arm, she said, ‘Charles’s cousin is Royes Bell, a Harley Street surgeon, whose partner is the eminent Dr Johnson. If Charles could be dying, I wish to send for them.’
‘Of course,’ said both doctors in unison.
By the time Dr Johnson, a kindly looking older gentleman who served as Vice-President of the Royal College of Physicians, and his young colleague Dr Bell, entered the sickroom, the grandfather clock in the hall had struck three times. Cecilia sat on the bed beside the still form of her husband, stroking his damp hair; Mrs Clark occupied a chair in the corner, and the other servants were keeping a vigil in the kitchen. Doctor Johnson briefly examined Cranbrook and then conferred with his colleagues in the upstairs passageway. Returning to the room, he said to Cecilia, ‘I concur with Dr Moore’s diagnosis. Your husband has been poisoned and is unlikely to survive the night.’
Cranbrook, hitherto silent, stirred and his eyelids fluttered open. Giving the physicians a wild, incoherent look, he struggled to get out of bed but was forcibly restrained. ‘Charles,’ said Dr Bell, hovering over him, ‘do you recognize me?’
‘Yes,’ said Cranbrook in a barely audible voice. ‘It’s Royes.’
‘Charles,’ said Bell, ‘you’ve swallowed something. What did you take?’
Looking dazed, Cranbrook blinked uncomprehendingly and then muttered, ‘Laudanum. I … rubbed it on my gums for toothache. I may have swallowed some.’
‘Laudanum won’t explain your symptoms,’ said Dr Johnson. ‘You must have taken something else.’ Cranbrook shook his head. ‘You’re in mortal peril,’ continued Johnson. ‘Good God, man, if you’ve taken poison you have a moral duty to tell us.’
‘No,’ said Cranbrook with a groan. ‘I’ve only taken laudanum.’ He winced in pain and doubled over.
‘Give him a grain of morphia by suppository,’ Johnson instructed Bell. ‘And an injection of brandy in his bloodstream for his heart.’
‘Doctor Johnson.’ Mrs Clark stood at his elbow. ‘May I have a private word with you?’ Stepping out into the passage, she leaned close to him and said, ‘I must tell you that Mr Cranbrook has poisoned himself. When I found him, he said, “I’ve taken poison – don’t tell Cecilia”, before he collapsed.’
‘Why didn’t you tell someone sooner?’ asked Johnson angrily.
‘I told Dr Harrison,’ she replied calmly.
Summoned to the passageway, Harrison hotly denied Mrs Clark’s assertion. ‘You merely stated he’d swallowed chloroform,’ he said, pointing an accusatory finger. ‘That you smelt it on his breath.’ The three returned to the bedroom, where Cranbrook had lapsed again into unconsciousness. He lay in his bed, groaning, with Cecilia sitting at his bedside, clutching her arms as the physicians retired downstairs for coffee, and Mrs Clark went to her room to snatch a few hours’ rest.
Despite the direst predictions, Cranbrook survived the long night, though it was evident to Cecilia, studying his contorted features and the damp hair at his temples in the dim light of early morning that he had only hours to live unless other, drastic measures were taken. Summoning Mary Ann to sit with him, she went to the writing desk in her room and composed a brief note, an appeal to Sir William Gill, the personal physician to the queen and a close acquaintance of Cecilia’s father, to come at once to attend her husband, who is deathly ill.
As it happened, the arrival of Dr Gill, the most eminent physician in the land, coincided with that of Sir Harry and Lady Cranbrook, summoned by Cecilia at first light. Quickly advised by Dr Johnson of the circumstances surrounding Cranbrook’s collapse and the conclusions drawn by the team of doctors, Gill proceeded to the sickroom. During the course of Gill’s examination, Cranbrook briefly regained consciousness, semi-delirious and complaining of excruciating abdominal pain.
‘This is not disease,’ said Gill, leaning down over Cranbrook. ‘You have been poisoned. Pray tell how it happened.’
Sweating profusely, Cranbrook muttered weakly, ‘Laudanum.’
‘This is more than laudanum,’ said Gill. ‘If you reveal the name of the poison, we will try an antidote.’
With a groan, Cranbrook closed his eyes and rolled on his side. Shaking their heads, the physicians withdrew and, notwithstanding the tears and fervent prayers of his wife and family, Cranbrook slipped deeper into unconsciousness, writhing in agony, until, at last, as the sun reached its zenith, he took a sharp breath, uttered a long, rasping gargle, shuddered, and was still. Wiping away a tear, Cecilia rose from her bedside chair and walked out into the passage, where Cranbrook’s parents were in hushed conversation with young Dr Bell. Cecilia approached Lady Cranbrook, who was weeping, took her hand, and simply said, ‘Charles is gone.’