A sudden, fearful death (61 page)

She rang the bell, and it was
answered by a footman. Perhaps in these anguished times the women were being
kept in the rear of the house. It might be deemed better for a man to deal with
the curious and tasteless who might call.

"Yes ma'am?" he said
guardedly.

"Lady Callandra Daviot,"
Callandra said briskly, passing him her card. "I have a matter of extreme
urgency to discuss with Lady Stanhope, and I regret it cannot, wait until a
more fortunate time. Will you inform her that I am here." It was an order,
not a question.

"Certainly ma'am," he
replied stiffly, taking the card without reading it. "But Lady Stanhope is
not receiving at present."

'This is not a social call,"
Callandra replied. "It is a matter of medical emergency."

"Is—is Sir Herbert ill?"
The man's face paled.

"Not so far as I am
aware."

He hesitated, in spite of
experience, uncertain what best to do. Then he met her eyes; something in him
recognized power and authority and a strength of will which would not be
overridden or gainsaid.

"Yes, ma'am. If you would be
good enough to wait in the morning room." He opened the door wider to
allow her in, and then showed her to a very formal room, at present devoid of
flowers and bleak in its sense of being unused. It was like a house in
mourning.

Philomena Stanhope came after only
a few moments, looking pinched and anxious. She regarded Callandra without
apparent recognition. Society had never meant anything to her, and the hospital
was only a place where her husband worked. Callandra was touched by pity for
the ruinous disillusion she was about to inflict on her. Her comfortable
family and home were about to be ripped apart.

"Lady Callandra?"
Philomena said questioningly. "My footman says you have some news for
me."

"I am afraid I have. I
profoundly regret it, but further tragedy may occur if I do not."

Philomena remained standing, her
face even paler.

"What is it?" She was so
shaken already that the rules of etiquette were totally ignored. This was in a
way worse than death. Death was expected, and there were procedures to follow;
whatever the grief, one knew what to do. And death visited all households;
there was no shame or peculiarity about it. "What has happened?"

"It is not a simple thing to
tell," Callandra replied. "I should prefer to do so seated." She
was about to add that it would be easier, but the words were absurd. Nothing
could make this easier.

Philomena remained where she was.
"Please tell me what has happened, Lady Callandra."

"Nothing new has happened. It
is simply knowledge of old sins and sadness which must be known in order to prevent
them happening again."

'To whom?"

Callandra took a breath. This was
every bit as painful as she had foreseen—perhaps even worse.

'To your children, Lady
Stanhope."

"My children?" There was
no real alarm in her, only disbelief. "What have my children to do with
this—this ordeal? And what can you possibly know about it?"

"I am one of the governors of
the Royal Free Hospital," Callandra replied, sitting down, whether
Philomena chose to or not "Your daughter Victoria consulted a surgeon
there some time ago, when she first knew she was with child."

Philomena was very pale, but she
kept her composure and she did not sit down.

"Indeed? I did not know that,
but it does not seem to me to be of importance now. Unless—unless you are
saying that it was he who marred her?"

"No—it was not." Thank
God she could say that. "Her pregnancy was too far advanced. He refused to
operate."

"Then I cannot see how raising
the matter now can serve any purpose whatsoever, except to open old
wounds."

"Lady Stanhope ..."
Callandra hated this. She could feel her stomach clenching so hard her whole
body hurt. "Lady Stanhope—do you know who was the father of Victoria's
child?"

Philomena's voice was strangled.
"That is hardly your concern, Lady Callandra."

"You do know!"

"I do not. Nothing I could say
would persuade her to tell me. The very fact that I pressed her seemed to drive
her to such terror and despair I feared she would take her own life if I
continued."

"Please sit down."

Philomena obeyed, not because
Callandra asked her but because her legs threatened to give way if she did not.
She stared at Callandra as at a snake about to strike.

"She did tell the
surgeon," Callandra went on, hearing her own voice in the still room with
its dead atmosphere and loathing it. "Because it was one of the
circumstances in which he might have considered the operation, had he been
consulted sooner."

"I don't understand—Victoria
was in excellent health— then ..."

"But the child was a result of
incest. The father was her brother Arthur."

Philomena tried to speak. Her mouth
opened, but no sound came. She was so pale Callandra was afraid she was going
to faint, even sitting as she was.

"I wish I could have spared
you," she said quietly. "But you have other daughters. For their
sakes I had to inform you. I wish it were not so."

Still Philomena seemed paralyzed.

Callandra leaned forward and took
one of her hands. It was cold to the touch, and stiff. Then she rose and pulled
flie bell sharply and stood facing the door.

As soon as a maid appeared she sent
her for brandy and then a hot, sweet tisane.

The maid hesitated.

"Don't stand there,
girl," Callandra said sharply. 'Tell the butler to bring the brandy and
then fetch the tisane. Hurry yourself!"

"Arthur," Philomena said
suddenly in a harsh voice thick with anguish. "Dear God! If only I'd
known! If she'd told me!" Slowly she bent forward, her body shuddering
with terrible dry sobs and long cries, straining for breath.

Callandra did not even look to see
if the maid had gone or not. She knelt and put her arms around the agonized
woman and held her close while she shook with a storm of weeping.

The butler brought the brandy,
stood helpless and anguished with uncertainty and embarrassment, then put the
tray down and left.

Eventually Philomena's strength was
spent and she clung to Callandra in motionless exhaustion.

Gently Callandra eased her back
into the chair and fetched the brandy, holding it to her lips.

Philomena sipped it, choked, then
drank the rest.

"You don't understand,"
she said at last, her eyes red-rimmed, her face smeared with the signs of
weeping. "I could have saved her. I knew where to find a woman who could
have got her a proper abortion, a woman who knows where to find a real surgeon
who would do it—for sufficient money. If she had felt she could trust me, I
would have taken her to that man in time. When she got there herself—it was too
late."

"You—" Callandra could
hardly believe it. "You knew how to find such a woman?"

Philomena misunderstood her
emotion. She colored deeply. "I—I have seven children. I ..."

Callandra grasped her hand and held
it. "I understand," she said immediately.

"I didn't go."
Philomena's eyes opened wide. "She would not refer me. She—she herself—gave
me ..." She faltered to a stop, unable to say the words.

"But she knew how to find
him?" Callandra pressed, the irony bitter inside her.

"Yes." Philomena sobbed
again. "God forgive me—I could have helped Victoria. Why didn't she trust
me? Why? I loved her so much! I didn't condemn her—what did I fail to do that
she ..." Again the tears filled her eyes and she looked at Callandra
desperately, as if she could find some answer that somehow, anyhow, would take
away the appalling pain that overwhelmed her.

Callandra said the only thing that
came into her mind.

"Perhaps she was ashamed
because it was Arthur. And you don't know what he said to her. She may have
felt she must defend him from anyone's knowing, even you—or perhaps you most of
all because of the distress it would cause you. One thing I am sure of! she
would not wish you to bear the burden of guilt for it now. Has she ever reproached
you?"

"No."

"Then be assured she does not
hold you responsible."

Philomena's face filled with
self-disgust "Whether she does or not, I am to blame. I am her mother. I
should have prevented it in the first place—and when it did happen, I should
have helped her."

"Who would you have gone
to?" She made it sound casual, almost unimportant, but her breath rasped
in her throat as she waited for the answer.

"Berenice Ross Gilbert,"
Philomena replied. "She knows how to obtain safe abortions. She knows of a
surgeon who will do it."

"Berenice Ross Gilbert. I
see." Callandra tried to hide her amazement and almost succeeded; there
was only a lift at the end of her words, a half squeak.

"It makes no difference
now," Philomena said immediately. "It is all done. Victoria is
ruined—far worse than if she had had the child!"

"Perhaps." Callandra
could not deny it. "You must send Arthur away to university, or military
college, or anything to keep him from the house. Your other daughters must be
protected. And you had better make sure none of them is— well, if they are, I
will find you a surgeon who will perform the operation without charge, and
immediately."

Philomena stared at her. There was
nothing else to say. She was numb, wretched, weak with pain and bewilderment.

There was a knock on the door and
it opened a crack. The maid put her head around, eyes wide and filled with
alarm.

"Bring in the tisane,"
Callandra ordered. "Put it down mere and then leave Lady Stanhope for a
while. There are to be no callers admitted."

"Yes ma'am. No ma'am."
She obeyed and withdrew.

Callandra remained with Philomena
Stanhope for a further half hour, until she was sure she was capable of retaining
her composure and beginning to face the dreadful task ahead of her, then she
excused herself and left, going outside into the warm dusk to where her
carriage still awaited her. She gave me coachman instructions to take her to
Fitzroy Street, and Monk's lodgings.

* * * * *

Hester began immediately upon the
same task of finding the link between Sir Herbert and his patients that Monk
had done. For her it was far easier. She could deduce from Prudence's notes
which nurses had assisted him, and even though the notes went back to shortly
after Prudence's arrival at the hospital, most of the nurses were still here
and not difficult to encounter.

She met one rolling bandages, a
second sweeping the floor, a third preparing poultices. The fourth she found
carrying two heavy pails of slops.

"Let me help you," she
offered uncharacteristically.

"Why?" the woman said
with suspicion. It was not a job people took up voluntarily.

"Because I'd rather carry one
for you than have to mop up behind you if you spill it," Hester said with
something less than the truth. The task would not have been hers.

The woman was not going to argue
herself out of help with a distasteful job. She passed over the heavier of the
two pails immediately.

By now Hester had worked out a plan
of action. It was not likely to make her popular, and would almost certainly
make working in the Royal Free Hospital impossible once the nurses spoke to
each other and realized what she was doing, but she would worry about that
after Sir Herbert was convicted. For now her anger overrode all such practical
considerations.

"Do you think he did it?"
she said casually.

"What?"

"Do you think he did it?"
she repeated, walking side by side down the corridor with the pails.

" 'Oo did wot?" the woman
said irritably. "Are you talking about the treasurer groping after Mary
Higgins again? 'Oo knows? And 'oo cares? She asked for it anyway— stupid
cow!"

"Actually I meant Sir
Herbert," Hester explained. "Do you think he killed Barrymore? The
papers say the trial will end soon, then I suppose he'll be back here. I wonder
if he'll have changed?"

"Not 'im. Snooty sod. It'll
still be 'Fetch this'—'Gimme that'—'Stand 'ere'—'Stand there'—'Empty
this'—'Roll up the bandages and pass me the knife.' "

"You worked with him, didn't
you?"

"Me? Gori I just empty slops
and sweep floors!" she said with disgust.

"Yes, you did! You assisted
him with an operation! I heard you did it very well! July last year—woman with
a tumor in her stomach."

"Oh ... yeah! An' in
October—but never again after that. Not good enough—me!" She hawked and
spat viciously.

"So who is good enough,
then?" Hester said, investing her voice with a suitable contempt.
"Doesn't sound like anything very special to me."