A Broken Vessel (10 page)

Julian looked up sharply at this. Why had it taken the people at the refuge three hours to call in a doctor? And what were they doing in the meantime?

As the Great Doctor understood it, nothing in Mary’s room had been moved since her body was discovered. She was lying on her bed, dressed in a coarse woolen nightgown, with the blanket drawn up to her shoulders. She had no wounds, and there was no sign she had suffered a seizure or sudden illness. To judge by the onset of rigor mortis and the extent and pattern of lividity, she had lain dead in that position for anywhere from six to twelve hours.

He gave a brief description of her room. It was some ten feet square, without any window or fireplace. The only furniture was a small bedstead, a wooden chest, and a bedside table with a porcelain basin for washing. The basin was clean and empty. Beside it stood a jug half full of water, and an almost empty bottle.

The Great Doctor took the bottle out of his medical bag and held it up. It was about six inches high, made of clear glass, with a label attached to the cork. There were traces of a ruby-coloured liquid at the bottom. The coroner scrutinized it closely, then showed it to the jury. “You see, gentlemen,” he pointed out, “the bottle was clearly labelled ‘Laudanum.’ The deceased can have been under no misapprehension about what was in it. I’m sure most of you have had occasion to take laudanum at one time or another; all the same, will you be good enough, Doctor, to explain briefly to the jury what it is?”

“Laudanum is tincture of opium dissolved in alcohol. It’s prescribed for relieving pain caused by various ailments—toothache, rheumatism, and other more serious complaints. The average dose is twenty-five drops.”

There was a glass beside the bottle on Mary’s night-table, the Great Doctor said. It contained traces of laudanum, water, and a substance he believed to be Summerson’s Strengthening Elixir, a cordial Mary had been taking.

What exactly was this cordial? the coroner asked. The Great Doctor explained that it was a concoction of sugar syrup, herbs, and a dash of spirits, designed to raise a weak patient. It was very popular, he believed, and was sold at shops all over London. It had a distinctive label, with a sun in the corner, shedding healing rays. He had no personal knowledge of why Mary was taking it, since she had never been his patient. He was told she had not been seriously ill, but merely weak and in low spirits—perhaps a debilitating effect of the depraved life she had led before she came to the refuge.

Here the coroner cautioned the jury that there was no evidence as yet regarding Mary’s past life, so they could not draw conclusions about it. The Great Doctor stifled a yawn and looked at his watch.

The coroner asked him if he had an opinion about the cause of death. The Great Doctor cleared his throat. “In my view, death resulted from respiratory failure brought on by the deceased’s deliberate ingestion of an overdose of laudanum.”

“How can you be certain it was deliberate?”

“At Mr. Harcourt’s request, I boiled down a small amount of the laudanum left in the bottle, to determine how high a concentration of opium it contained. Most druggists have their own preparations, and the amount of opium they use may vary. This was not a strong preparation. A female of Mary’s age, in moderately good health, would have had to take an exceedingly large dose to end her life. No young woman of even minimal intelligence would swallow such a dose by mistake.”

“Habitual opium-eaters are often reckless in the amount they take,” the coroner suggested.

“This young woman was not a habitual opium-eater. Had she been, she would have needed constant doses of the drug. Deprivation would bring on severe physical symptoms—chills, aches, vomiting. I have been assured that she, like the other inmates of the refuge, was watched carefully, and her room frequently searched. There is no evidence that she was secretly taking opium in any form. Therefore I conclude she was not accustomed to opium, and that she knowingly took an excessive dose on this occasion, with fatal intent.”

The coroner thanked the Great Doctor and dismissed him. The reporters wrote furiously in little notebooks. The jury exchanged grave looks.

Mrs. Fiske was called next. She sat down stiffly in the witness’s seat. She was Mrs. Matthew Fiske—Christian name, Ellen. She was a member of the Reclamation Society, and one of the three matrons in charge of the refuge. The other two were Mrs. Jessop—she pointed to a stout, red-faced woman seated beside Harcourt—and Miss Nettleton, a thin, fluttery woman on Harcourt’s other side.

The three matrons took turns on duty at the refuge, Mrs. Fiske explained. Mrs. Jessop presided on Mondays and Thursdays, Miss Nettleton on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and Mrs. Fiske on Tuesdays and Fridays. They each took every third Sunday. The matron on duty was responsible for keeping the refuge running smoothly: dealing with tradespeople, answering enquiries about the Reclamation Society’s work, and maintaining adequate stocks of food, coal, candles, and such things. In addition, the presiding matron kept her eye on the inmates, and made sure they attended to their work and their prayers. If there were any serious infractions of discipline, she reported them to Mr. Harcourt. He visited the refuge at least once a day, and always held services there on Sundays.

Yesterday, following her usual practice, Mrs. Fiske relieved Mrs. Jessop in the morning and remained at the refuge all day. In the evening, the inmates had their supper in the refectory as usual. They finished at about half past eight. Then they went upstairs to the chapel for prayers and Bible readings until nearly ten.

“Was the deceased present at supper and evening prayers?” the coroner asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

Mrs. Fiske bridled. “She wouldn’t have been excused from them unless I gave her leave, which I should only have done if she were ill. Which she wasn’t.”

“Did you observe what frame of mind she was in?”

“There was a deal too much fuss about Mary and her moods, in my opinion, sir. She was always hipped about something—mooning and making a great drama of things, as if her speaking like a lady and being what some might call pretty made her different from the other girls. Which it didn’t—they were all the same in God’s eyes, all sinners in need of chastisement.”

“But on this particular evening, Mrs. Fiske?”

“She seemed much as usual. I didn’t especially notice. Though Mr. Harcourt has observed since that she seemed troubled in her mind, and I feel sure he must be right. He has a great understanding of character.”

“So Mr. Harcourt was there yesterday evening?”

“Y-es.” She eyed him warily.

“How long did he remain?”

“He—well, he was there all night, sir.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Very. As a rule, Mr. Harcourt is scrupulous about observing the proprieties, and doesn’t remain under the same roof with the inmates after they’ve gone to bed. But on this occasion we were expecting the trustees the next day Mr. Harcourt was to make an important presentation to them regarding the progress of our work. There was a great deal of preparation to be done, and Mr. Harcourt asked me to go over the accounts with him. We worked together the entire night.”

“When did you last see the deceased alive?”

“I suppose it must have been at about ten o’clock. I gave her her dose of cordial after evening prayers.”

“That was the cordial called Summerson’s Strengthening Elixir?”

“Yes. She took a glass of it to bed with her every night—about a finger’s length.” She held up her forefinger to illustrate. “She was a bit thin and wan. The cordial was supposed to raise her.” She pursed her lips skeptically.

“Did she say anything to you when you gave her the cordial?”

“Just, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Fiske,’ and bobbed a curtsey. She was a great one for little airs and graces.”

“How long had she been taking this cordial?”

“About ten days.”

“Was anyone else at the refuge taking it?”

“No, sir.”

After Mary and the rest of the inmates had gone to bed, Mrs. Fiske worked with Mr. Harcourt in his office. From time to time, she went down to the kitchen to make tea. At about three o’clock in the morning, she went to the inmates’ house to see that they were all in bed and behaving themselves.

“What do you mean by ‘the inmates’ house’?” asked the coroner.

“The refuge consists of two houses, joined together by a passage on the ground floor. The inmates sleep in the house on the left, so we speak of it as the inmates’ house. The house on the right contains Mr. Harcourt’s office, some reception rooms and work rooms, and the chapel.”

“Did Mr. Harcourt go with you to look in on the inmates?”

“Mr. Harcourt go to the inmates’ rooms while they were in bed? Certainly not! He would never do such a thing!”

The coroner coughed. “Hm—well—did you see anything out of the ordinary in the inmates’ house?”

“No, sir. A few of the inmates were sitting up whispering, but I soon put a stop to that.”

“Did you look in on the deceased?”

“I did, briefly. She was lying on her bed, and seemed to be asleep.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yes, of course. She slept in a small room by herself, as she was in disgrace.”

“Why was that?”

“That was Mr. Harcourt’s decision. I wouldn’t presume to speak for him on matters of discipline.”

“Very well. Did you notice the empty laudanum bottle on the table by her bed?”

“No. It may have been there—I couldn’t say. It was quite dark, and I wasn’t looking around for such a thing. I just put my head in long enough to see that she was in bed, and then I moved on.”

She had heard of Mary’s death from Margaret Muldoon, at the same time as the others did. She went at once to the inmates’ house with Mr. Harcourt, who summoned the doctor and ordered that nothing in Mary’s room be touched. “And I can’t say of my own knowledge what went on after that, because Miss Nettleton came to relieve me and had an attack of the vapours when she heard what had happened to Mary. So I had to take charge of her.” She glared at Miss Nettleton, who shrank down in her chair.

Sally tugged on Julian’s coat. “She didn’t say where she piked off to in such a hurry in her bonnet and shawl, right after she come back from seeing Mary.”

Before he could reply, the coroner asked, “Was laudanum readily available to the inmates?”

“It certainly was not. We keep some in the stillroom in case there’s a need for it, but the door to that room is always locked. We keep spirits there, too, for medicinal use, and we can’t have the creatures sneaking in looking for drink.”

“Could the deceased have gotten laudanum from that room somehow?”

“I suppose she might have, sir, but the fact is, she didn’t. I looked, and no laudanum had gone missing.”

“Have you any idea at all how she might have gotten the laudanum?”

“Not the least, sir. But these women are sly enough for anything. Whenever I’m on duty I watch them closely and search their rooms, to make sure they haven’t got hold of anything they shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t put it past them to find a way of smuggling things in from outside. That certainly isn’t my fault, nor Mr. Harcourt’s! We do everything we can to control them. We can’t help it if—”

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Fiske, I’m sure you did all that was proper. Thank you. You are excused. And now”—he cleared his throat portentously—“I should like to hear from Mr. Harcourt.”

The jury craned their necks and murmured to each other as Harcourt took the stand. They had been looking troubled by some of the evidence, especially about the harsh treatment Mary had undergone at the refuge. But if Harcourt sensed their mood, he gave no sign. He was grave and serene—respectful to the coroner and jury, but a little remote, as if a spiritual gulf set him apart from the law and its Pharisees.

At the coroner’s behest, he gave a little information about himself. His name was Gideon Harcourt. He was an ordained minister of the Church of England, and the rector of a parish in Norfolk, which was now in the care of a curate. (Julian pricked up his ears at the mention of Norfolk, but no one else seemed struck by it.) On a visit to London some months ago, he had been shocked by the number of abandoned women on the streets, and by the shameful profligacy, at all levels of society, that fostered this trade in vice. He began to lecture on the subject, and found that there were many like-minded people eager to remove these baneful influences—these chancres in human form—from the streets. He resolved to dedicate himself to reclaiming as many castaways as he could, first helping them to repent and reform, and then either restoring them to their families or training them to earn their living at some virtuous, respectable trade.

The jury nodded approvingly, but they were not yet won over. Harcourt described his founding of the Reclamation Society and praised the hard work of its members, many of whom, he said, were kind enough to express their support by appearing here today. The women in his coterie beamed. The prosperous-looking men puffed out their chests, as if confident that their patronage was support enough for anyone. The journalists rolled their eyes at each other and shook their heads.

The refuge had opened about three months ago, Harcourt testified. Inmates had come and gone during that time. A few, he regretted to say, were unable to profit by the regimen of work and prayer laid down for them, and by the sterling example the matrons set. Those unfortunates were permitted to go their ways; the refuge held no one against her will.