The Specimen (38 page)

“No,” she coughed, and tried to right herself.

“I’ve always wondered,” he said. And Gwen thought that he spoke through gritted teeth. She tried to edge away from him. He caught her up and pressed down on her back. Gwen
yelled, angry at her incoherence, as he spat at her again; a great gobbet of phlegm landing on her buttock.

She twisted herself around, and flung her arm up, elbow jagged, catching him somewhere soft.

“Stop.” She managed to get the word out as she heard Edward grunt in pain and swear, before he hit her again and pressed her back down into the daybed. “Don’t,
Ted,” she said. “Ted. That’s what she calls you now, isn’t it? You have a different—” The thump from his fist into her side winded her completely. A searing pain
rent through her as he drove into her and thrust harder, harder, shouting, “Tell me about the rain, you bitch,” until his shouting became incomprehensible, the words catching in his
throat until they became one long yell of anger.

He pushed her aside as he rose and left her, walking to the end of the room. She heard the cold, clear ring of crystal meeting crystal as he poured.

“Ted,” she murmured, inaudible to him. She thought for the first time of her sister being his wife, letting him into her bed. She wondered what room Effie had now. Was it her old one
or the one she had always wanted? She thought of Effie doing as she was told, and saying the words. Of Effie refusing and of her lying as she was, thinking as she was, that he might have cracked
her rib. Concentrating on the bones. Just the bones.

The light had almost gone from the room. Her view of the floor, tipped on its edge, saw Edward’s trousers and shoes pacing over the floor, coming to the fringe of the carpet and swivelling
on the first inch of wood before turning. The different kinds of pain she felt astonished her. Her right arm was caught up underneath her ribcage, a dead limb. I can’t leave, she thought. I
shouldn’t even move, until I have my arm back.

“Drink?” he said. “You’ve got to tell me now, how did you survive? You were thrown from the canoe. The river was teeming with alligators.” Edward did not seem to be
talking to her now, and when she replied, Gwen was not sure that he heard her.

“Vincent Coyne was a parasitic lunatic,” she said, and studied the pattern in the carpet as she felt with her good hand for her hair. He was a lunatic, she thought. But you, Edward,
are just a disgusting parasite. Letting her hair down slowly, the pins collected in her fist as she unwound the coil.

As she began to fall asleep, the pain of it played over and over in her mind, ghastly and dulled now by the tincture, still present and livid in her mind. She wondered in her
stupor on the nature of pain embedded in the memory, trying still to distance herself from the thing which kept her from sleeping.

She’d waited a long time for Edward to get drunk enough to become enfeebled. And for the life to come back to her arm so that she could begin to plait her hair.

Her mind had been clear.

Gus Pemberton smiled at his wife as she lay sleeping with her daughter on the big bed. He’d come in and drawn back the curtains. The window had been left open a little
all night, and the room was only slightly fusty with their sleep. He bent over to kiss her forehead and stopped. There was a large bruise above her nose, and the swelling had spread down, puffing
up her face. Her lips were misshapen and dark with the lively purple of trauma.

Gwen opened her eyes. Seeing him standing over her, she moved without remembering and winced.

“You’ve suffered some kind of injury,” he said. “What on earth has happened?”

“I stumbled,” she said, her voice masked with a dry tongue.

Gus passed her a glass of water. “Tell me,” he said quietly, helping her to sip it.

“I lost my footing. On the omnibus. People were very kind. I ripped my dress. It wasn’t so bad at the time. But —”

“You’ll be feeling it now. Oh, dear, poor love. My poor dove.” He cupped her cheek with a soft hand, and she closed her eyes. “I wish you’d have said
yesterday.”

“It seemed just so silly. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Here, let’s get you sitting up.” He tried to ease her into a heap of pillows. She tried to keep the extent of her injuries hidden from him but she couldn’t stop herself
from crying out at his touch.

“Don’t move me, please.”

“No Zoo today. Not for you, anyway. I’ll send for Rathstone.”

“Don’t bother Dr Rathstone, I don’t want to see him. I just need to sleep.”

“But, surely, just to see that nothing —” He stopped as she shook her head.

“I look as if I’ve been knocked rather badly, I know, but don’t waste money on it.”

“Hell! Who cares about that?”

“Just a drop of tincture.”

“That will not do, you know it. See sense, let me send for the doctor.”

“Bring the scissors from the table, will you please? I’m so hot, and my head hurts.”

Gus put his hand on her forehead. “Now, why on earth do you want the scissors?”

When she told him, he wouldn’t do it.

“But it is matted, and I shan’t be able to dress it; no one shall. It is better to cut it off to my shoulder. My head aches with it, the weight of it is too much.”

“When the doctor has seen you, you will feel differently.”

“I don’t think I shall.”

Gus glanced at the sprawled child who was beginning to wake. He scooped her up as she became instantly conscious. From the child’s hand he saw a pale grey, pearlescent sphere drop to the
folds of the sheets. It was a very good example of a balas diamond, the best he had ever seen. He had no idea how Gwen had come about it. She had never said that she knew what it was, and had given
it to Augusta to play with a long time ago. Gus jollied Augusta out of the room, making trumpeting elephant noises. It had always been on the tip of his tongue to say that she had given her
daughter a small fortune to play with.

Now, as he looked at his wife in her state of distress, just as during the voyage back home on the steamer, he knew it was better to drop all thoughts of probing her deeply over things he could
see she did not want to discuss. He knew that she must have spent the day with Scales again; Gwen taking the omnibus was unusual. But here she was, home again. And he knew that whatever she did,
wherever she went, she’d always do the right thing. But he couldn’t bring himself to cut her hair.

He handed Augusta over to the nanny and sent for Rathstone. While he waited for the doctor to arrive, Gus went back to his rooms to inspect the map of New Zealand he’d recently acquired.
As he took the map from its paper casing, he remembered the way the servant girl at Carrick House had shut herself in the study with him.

“You’re a detective, sir, aren’t you?” she’d said. “From Scotland Yard.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Aren’t you, sir? I thought you was.” Her shoulders sagged hopelessly.

“Oh, I see.” He’d wanted to be kind but he’d wanted to laugh so very badly, as well. The girl had spilled out her speech anyway, ending with, “I do what I can, sir.
But my mistress, she’s married him, and I can’t look out for her all the time, if you see what I mean.”

He’d said that he did see, and that he understood her to be a very loyal kind of person.

“I always thought it were funny peculiar, what happened just before Miss Gwen went away. He’s always made it seem like she was afficted. But I’ve known them girls longer
’n anybody. There’s nothing mad about her. It’s all just to hide what’s happened, see. Because of her not being able to say now.”

Scales’ words then had come back to him, that Gwen would know what to do. And he had no doubt that she would, if he were to tell her. But, whatever they were, he knew she would keep her
conclusions to herself, as would he. A servant’s ravings were hardly a sound basis for such a serious accusation. Scales, for all his faults, was after all, a scientist, and scientists were
in the habit of collecting macabre objects of interest.

He put his forefinger to the map and traced the lines of the mountains, the contours of the coast. He paused, the servant girl’s words trammelling his head: “I can’t look out
for her all the time, if you see what I mean.”

“God’s sake, I’m an ass. An eejit of the first order,” he said out loud. He rang for the maid.

“Tell Cook hot porridge for Mrs Pemberton. I want you to take it up to her as soon as you can—tell Mrs Pemberton.” He tapped the map on his desk as he thought it through.

“Would you please convey my apologies to my wife. I have to go out for a couple of hours; no more than that, I am sure.”

The sun moved more fully into the room. Gwen sipped her water slowly. She thought, And still the birds are able to sing. She remembered the sharp clarity of everything her eye
had rested on that next day in a life which had seemed so distant from this one. She held her empty glass, waiting for Gus to come back, as he always did, with her breakfast tray.

Effie, she thought, but nothing more than that.

The sun glanced off the mirrors, and a fabulous light ricocheted into the room.

London. October 5, 1866.

Gus Pemberton felt empty as he watched the Jury stand up and file out of the courtroom to consider their verdict. He knew that had the Defence been conducted by his first
choice of man, the case would have been thrown out of court by the Judge, or that the Judge, at least, would have made his direction to the Jury in Gwen’s favour. As it was, he couldn’t
imagine that anyone present would be confident in guessing the verdict. All week, his fingernails had dug into his palms as each witness had been called up by the Prosecution. With each new name,
Gus had wondered whether this would be the person to give the most damning evidence of all. When they did, for he was sure that such a person would have been found by now, he knew that he would not
be able to stand it. Bettlesham and Bettlesham had kept their distance from the whole proceedings. Henry Bettlesham Senior had said to Gus, with a tone of regret the night before the first day of
the trial, that he thought it best if he kept the lowest profile in England.

Gus now wondered if his approach had been all wrong; if there had been, perhaps, some other way of persuading Henry B. that either himself or his son could act for his wife. There was a low hum
in the courtroom, shuffling, and much fidgeting as the spectators wondered how long they would have to wait or if there was time to go and empty their bladders. Gus stared up at the ceiling, as he
dared not catch anyone’s eye. He didn’t trust himself not to lose his composure. That first conversation with Henry B., after he’d received Henry’s astonishing letter,
played out again in his mind. There had been no witness called with the secret information, but still Gus felt his body throbbing with worry that somehow, even at this late stage, this unknown
person might still be produced.

Gus had paced about in Henry B.’s rooms, unable to contain his anxiety long enough to park his backside on the chair offered. He’d sucked and puffed on the cigars he’d taken up
again since Gwen’s arrest and waited for Henry’s response.

Henry had said, “I’m sorry, Augustus. This is quite embarrassing as I am sure you will appreciate.”

“Oh, come off it, Harry. I don’t see how there can’t be a way around this. If you won’t do it then I won’t have anyone but your son to represent my wife.”

“It’s not a question of won’t, but can’t; it’s simply out of the question. Henry Bettlesham Junior is a fine lawyer, I will admit, but Shanks is his equal. I
haven’t yet released the details of the will and shan’t, of course, until the whole business is concluded. There was no one besides myself at the interment, in any case; such a drab
affair. And it is a maze of complications. But the implications for yourself and your wife could be—indeed, would be—very severe.”

“You’ll put it about that Scales was intestate?”

“I can’t exactly do that, you know; not explicitly. But matters can be alluded to, should they crop up. I should hope they wouldn’t. So should you.”

“I know nothing about this Shanks fellow.”

“He’s first rate. You couldn’t look for a better man.”

“And he doesn’t know about the will?”

“Good Lord, no. I must assure you; it hasn’t gone beyond myself, Henry and now yourself. There were no copies which left these offices, either then or since.”

“I can barely think why he came to you.”

“You mustn’t let it impinge. But Scales thought he was making provision for someone practically destitute. And, of course, he was under the impression that your wife was
not
married. As long as your wife was truly unaware of the change to Scales’ will before his death, and as long as it remains undisclosed—suffice to say, we’ll keep saying our
prayers.”

“But his widow came to see you yesterday. Surely—”

“I told her nothing. Of course, she was deeply distressed and presented some difficulties. She is very—”

“Accomplished. You’ll remember I have met her.”

“Quite so. Rest assured, she had nothing from me except my deepest condolences. She won’t know the worst of it until it is all over, and she may attempt to contest the will, of
course.”

“I don’t doubt it, though there may well be no need.”

“Do not give in to the ogre of despair. The most important subject for now is your own wife and the ordeal she continues to face, and I do believe that Shanks is the best man
to—”

“Save my wife from the noose and eternal infamy.”

“Shanks is very competent.”

“I don’t want competent; I want extraordinary. I can’t have some bastard come into court to reveal at the last minute that Gwen has inherited every last damn bit of
Scales’ estate.”

“Dear man, do compose yourself. It will never come near to that.”

Gus did not believe in tempting fate but he wished that Shanks had been a different kind of extraordinary. Perhaps he was being uncharitable but he felt he couldn’t be
held accountable for his feelings towards the man. When Shanks had failed to harangue Morrisson over his flaky evidence Gus had struggled to keep himself from getting up and doing it himself. The
triumph he had felt at convincing Gwen’s aunt to change her evidence at the last minute had been sweet but brief. The days had been relentless, and now the ticking of every bloody pocket
watch in the courtroom seemed amplified in his brain as the minutes ticked on into eternity. As he brought his gaze down from the ceiling, two things happened. First, he made eye contact with
Euphemia Scales, whose presence in the courtroom he had until that moment been entirely unaware of. Then, the Jury began to make their way back in.