Chapter Thirty-Eight

Agatha didn’t think she’d ever felt so desperate in her life. She’d believed she had dealt with the situation, had scuppered Mr Havelock’s murderous intentions. Now, after hearing what she had over the phone, the bottom had fallen out of her world. Sucking in air as she hurried past Christ Church, she put her hand to her chest; the freezing cold was making her lungs feel on fire. Hurrying along the Ryhope Road, she berated herself over and over again. She gave up looking over her shoulder for a bus and resigned herself to half walking, half jogging all the way. She forced herself to stop obsessing about the prospect of Henrietta dying, and instead focus on what she could possibly do to save her former mistress.

It took her half an hour to reach her destination, by which time she had come up with an idea. It was a long shot, but it might – just might – work.

Walking up the Durham Road, she had her eyes peeled. Her heart leapt when she spotted a young lad kicking up snow and looking like he didn’t have a home to go to, which, judging by his clothes, might have been true.

‘Here!’ Agatha called over to him. The boy looked up at her. His face was dirty and his eyes suspicious. ‘Do you want to earn a few shillings?’ she asked. The boy’s suspicion was immediately replaced by shocked surprise and he ran over.

After explaining what he had to do, the unlikely pair waited at the bus stop across the road from the entrance to the Royal Infirmary for what felt like an age, but which, in reality, was only a few minutes. Agatha was frozen through to the bone – not that she cared. She looked down at her scruffy little street urchin jumping from one foot to the other to keep himself warm.

‘Is that her?’ he asked for the umpteenth time when a man and a woman walked out of the main entrance.

Agatha thanked her lucky stars that the blackout was now a dim-out and the street lights were affording a modicum of light – enough for her to see whether or not it was Helen coming out of the building.

‘No,’ Agatha said, looking behind the couple to see if anyone else was on their way out. If Helen didn’t make an appearance soon, she was going to have to send the boy in there, but she preferred to get her note directly to Mr Havelock’s granddaughter.

Agatha looked anxiously at her watch. When she looked up again, her heart leapt. There was a gaggle of women, all dressed in overalls, coming out. She’d heard about Helen’s group of friends who were shipyard workers. Mr Havelock had mocked them enough and sneered that Helen couldn’t find any friends of her own class and was having to slum it with the ‘hoi polloi’.

Agatha scrutinised the women. This had to be them. Seeing a particularly large woman with a shorter girl who was speaking with a European accent convinced her. She’d heard talk that one of the women was a young Czechoslovakian refugee who worked as a draughtsman, while another was as tall and as strong as most of the men at the yard, if not more so. She watched as they said their goodbyes and hurried off in different directions – the piercing cold hastening their departure. Only one of the women was left chatting to her fella. They were both loitering on the steps, as though undecided as to what to do.

‘Go!’ Agatha grabbed the young boy’s arm and pointed to the young couple. ‘Give the note to that woman there.’ Agatha pressed two shillings into his hand. She’d held back giving him the money for fear he might run off without doing what he was being paid to do.

Seeing the shiny coins, the young boy’s face lit up.

‘Now!’ Agatha urged. She gave the young boy a slight push and he was off, half skidding, half sprinting across the road.

Bobby and Dorothy were standing on the top step of the entrance to the Royal. Angie and Polly had just jumped on a bus headed for the east end. Angie was to collect Hope from Agnes’s. She would take her back home and tell Jack that Gloria was staying with Helen at the hospital. Hannah and Martha had trudged off up the road to catch a bus headed for Villette Road, and Rosie had already jogged off in the direction of Brookside Gardens. It was freezing cold, which gave Bobby the excuse to wrap his arms around Dorothy and hold her close.

‘I hope Henrietta’s going to be all right,’ Dorothy said.

‘Me too, but it doesn’t look good,’ said Bobby.

‘Helen’s going to be devastated if anything happens to her,’ said Dorothy.

‘I agree,’ said Bobby. ‘Whenever she’s around the flat she’s always chatting about her and telling Hope about her.’

Bobby kissed Dorothy quickly on the lips. ‘Come on, let’s go somewhere,’ he said, breathing in the cold air, heavy with the smell of burning coal from the nearby houses.

‘It doesn’t feel right going out and enjoying ourselves while Henrietta’s life is hanging in the balance,’ Dorothy argued.

‘Well, from what Helen’s told me about Henrietta, she’d be all for us going out and enjoying ourselves. It beats going home and you and Angie moping about all evening,’ Bobby countered.

‘When she gets off the phone to Quentin, that is,’ Dorothy added.

‘Exactly,’ said Bobby, ‘so we might as well spend a few hours together, doing something nice – even if it’s just going for a walk.’

Dorothy looked down at her dirty overalls. ‘I think a walk might be the only possibility. I can’t see me getting through the door anywhere half decent.’

Bobby laughed. ‘Well, that’d be their loss.’

‘It’s a bit cold for a walk, though,’ Dorothy pointed out. She was enjoying the feel of Bobby’s arms around her – she always did – but at this moment in time it was the heat of his body she was relishing the most.

Just then, she felt someone tug at her sleeve.

‘Sorry, miss!’ The young boy looked up at Dorothy, his big blue eyes bloodshot with tiredness and cold.

‘I’ve been told to give yer this,’ he said, pulling the note from his trouser pocket and holding it aloft.

Dorothy glanced at Bobby, who returned her puzzled look.

‘Who told you to do that?’ Bobby asked.

The young boy turned around and looked across the road, but the old woman had gone.

‘Some auld man.’ He repeated what he’d been told to say. ‘He was there – just a minute ago – honest.’ He eyed the couple. ‘He said yer might give us a tip for being a messenger boy?’

Bobby dug some coins out of his pocket. The boy beamed, took the money and sped off down the street before any more questions were asked.

‘What does it say?’ Bobby asked.

Dorothy looked at the scrappy piece of paper that had been folded over twice and opened it.

A sharp intake of breath followed.

‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘Look!’ She handed the note to Bobby, who looked equally shocked.

‘Shall we go and tell Helen?’ Dorothy asked, panicked.

‘No, it’ll waste time – let’s just go there,’ Bobby said.

Seeing the lights of a tram heading into town, they both ran to catch it.

Jumping on board, they paid their fare and sat down on the leather seats. Dorothy unfolded the note and held it out in front of her.

‘So, someone has purposely tried to poison Henrietta. It’s not been some kind of mishap,’ Bobby said.

‘Definitely,’ Dorothy concurred.

‘“Look in the Winter Gardens for the reason Miss Girling is ill,”’ she read. ‘It looks like an old person’s writing. Who do you think wrote it?’

Bobby shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, but let’s worry about that later. What we’ve got to do now – and quickly – is work out what’s in the Winter Gardens that is making Henrietta ill.’

‘There’s loads of plants there – it could be anything,’ Dorothy said. She had been to the Winter Gardens many times over the years – when she was a child, then with Toby, and, more recently, with Bobby. She was quiet, her mind desperately trying to recall any of the plants she’d seen there.

Seeing they were almost at their stop, Bobby stood up. ‘Let’s just get there – we’ll get more of an idea when we’re able to have a good look around. We’ve got a bit of time before it shuts.’

Dorothy looked at Bobby. ‘What if we can’t find it?’

Her face suddenly hardened.

‘Why didn’t whoever wrote this note just put what it was?’

The bus came to a halt, the doors opened and they both jumped out.

‘Perhaps the writer of the note was frightened it would give them away,’ Bobby said, as they both ran across the Burdon Road and towards the museum. Taking the steps two at time, they hurried through the main entrance and into the grand hallway, where workers were decorating a tall, rather skinny-looking Christmas tree that had been positioned next to Wallace the lion, who was also joining in the festive spirit and wearing a garland of tinsel around his neck.

As they walked down the corridor and through the entrance to the Winter Gardens, they were immediately immersed in the clammy atmosphere and the smells of foreign lands. Dorothy stopped and turned to Bobby with a look of enlightenment on her face.

‘Of course! Why didn’t we think of it before? The beautiful but deadly section!’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘Beautiful but deadly’ was their nickname for the part of the botanical gardens where the poisonous plants were kept.

‘Of course!’ Bobby said, taking her hand and marching down a small pathway that led them past a few palm trees and rubber plants to a section signposted ‘The Toxic Plants Garden’.

Dorothy looked around at the array of pretty but potentially deadly vegetation.

‘Just read the signs that tell you about the actual plant. Whoever gave us that note wanted us to find it – it must be something quite obvious,’ Bobby said.

Dorothy started reading the first placard she came to. ‘It’s all in Latin,’ she moaned, moving on to the next exhibit.

Bobby went down on his haunches to get to a brass plate that was just a few feet off the ground, moving aside a large shiny leaf in order to be able to read the information.

Seeing a plant they had noticed before when they’d visited previously, Dorothy went over to it. It had been in bloom when they had seen it and she had remembered saying to Bobby that she couldn’t believe something so pretty could be so poisonous. Looking at it now, it just looked like a normal green shrub – gone were all its pretty white flowers. The placard, which before had been hidden by the large flowering heads, was now visible.

She started to read it:

‘“Ageratina altissima. Also known as white snakeroot. Grows in the rich, moist soil of woods, thickets and woodland borders and is found throughout Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois and western Ohio.”’

She suddenly took in a deep breath.

‘Bobby! Come here!’ She waved her arm behind her, keeping her eyes firmly on the information she was reading.

‘Listen to this,’ she said, feeling his presence next to her.

‘“This is the plant that was responsible for the death of Nancy Lincoln – Abraham Lincoln’s mother.”’

‘Really?’ Bobby said. ‘What, someone tried to poison her too?’

Dorothy turned back and continued to read, skimming through the descriptions of it being a shade-loving plant, its average height and when it came into bloom.

‘Here we are!’ Her voice went higher, and a couple nearby looked over in their direction.

‘“In 1818, Lincoln’s mother became desperately ill after caring for some neighbours who were sick. Two weeks later, Nancy Hanks Lincoln died of milk sickness.”’

She continued reading as Bobby listened intently.

‘“Milk sickness is poisoning by milk from cows that have eaten the white snakeroot plant … Back then, cattle would wander off from poor pasturelands to wooded areas in search of food and end up eating the poisonous plant.”’

Dorothy paused.

‘“The illness has been called puking fever, sick stomach and the trembles because of how it affects an animal – or a person.”’

She looked at Bobby with wide eyes.

‘Those are exactly the symptoms Helen described Henrietta as having – she said the shaking and the body tremors were just awful.’

Bobby turned his head slightly and caught sight of a bronze plaque half hidden by some overhanging green foliage. He moved the leaves aside and read the engraved inscription.

‘“Donated by North-East Shipping Co. Sales Negotiator & Philanthropist, Mr Charles Havelock, of Sunderland, County Durham.”’

Dorothy stared at him. ‘Oh. My. God!’

‘Come on,’ Bobby said, grabbing her hand. ‘Let’s go.’

Reaching the foyer, Bobby flung open the door.

As he did so, they were both hit by a blast of freezing cold air.

Seeing a taxi, they sprinted towards it.

‘The Royal,’ Dorothy told the driver breathlessly, ‘as fast as you can, please.’

Bobby jumped in next to her.

‘Go!’ Dorothy tried to stop herself sounding hysterical, but did not succeed.