Rivals in the City (17 page)

Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls Acacia Road, St John’s Wood

A
t precisely one o’clock, all pupils and teachers at the Academy filed into the dining room. They seated themselves, noses twitching at the tantalizing aroma of fish pie. As the girls ate, gossiped, teased each other, argued about their morning’s lessons and anticipated the afternoon’s, one chair at Mary’s table remained conspicuously empty.

It was to be expected, Mary told herself. The funeral would have been deeply distressing. Angelica would need time to be alone, afterwards. It was quite likely, in fact, that she was already back in their shared bedroom, unable to face the cheerful dinner-time throng. Despite these exceedingly reasonable justifications, however, Mary was uneasy. And after the grace was said and the girls dispatched to Regent’s Park for fresh air and exercise, Mary discovered that Angelica was nowhere to be found. Not in their bedroom, not in the school’s small but surprisingly private garden, not at the nearby park.

By the time the girls’ light supper was served at six o’clock, there was still no genuine cause for panic. Darkness was falling, true. But Angelica was a grown woman, intelligent and well-travelled. A few hours’ delay in her return was still within reason, especially given today’s emotional freight. All the same, when Mary heard a hesitant knock at the front door, she dashed to answer it and swung the door open wide. She stifled a scream.

It was a cabman, a broad, middle-aged fellow with an anxious face, cradling in his arms the too-still body of a woman. “This here Miss Scrimshaw’s?” he asked, tripping slightly over the name.

“Yes. Come in, please.” Mary ushered him into the drawing room, lit the lamps, spread a blanket on the longest sofa and asked him to settle the woman upon it. She commanded the startled girl who answered the drawing room bell to fetch Anne Treleaven, a doctor, a basin of fresh water and as many clean towels as possible; also vinegar, honey and smelling salts.

It had been dark in the room when they’d first entered. Now, Mary turned to the sofa and saw, with a jolt, that it was not Angelica Thorold, after all. The woman was lying on her side, facing the sofa cushions. Greying chestnut hair spilled from her battered bonnet. She had a handle sticking out of her back, between the shoulder blades.

The sight was so peculiar that Mary bypassed nausea and panic and arrived directly at numb efficiency. She placed the back of her hand against the woman’s cool cheek – it was cold out, she reminded herself fiercely – and thought she felt a whisper of breath escape her mouth. “It’s all right,” Mary said softly, quite certain she was lying. “You’re safe, now. You’re at the Academy.” She peered at the knife handle. It protruded a good four inches from the woman’s back, just to the right of her spine. Mary knew better than to try to pull it out, but what did one do with stab wounds, precisely?

“Thank you for bringing her,” she said to the cabman, as she waited for clean water and dressings to arrive. He stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. “What – what happened?”

The cabman looked sick and confused. “Damned if I know,” he said. “Pardon my language, miss, but it ain’t every day I finds a dying woman in the street. If it hadn’t been for her eyes – she looked at me, you know, just looked straight at me, and I swear, they were my own dead sister’s eyes looking at me – I don’t know I’d have gone near her, otherwise.”

A new voice, low and taut, demanded, “At what time did you find Miss Murchison?”

Mary and the cabbie spun to see Anne Treleaven, who edged past them towards the sofa. Her skin was ashen.

The man gaped at Anne, mouth opening and closing silently.

“It’s all right,” said Mary, before he could take a step backwards. “This is Miss Treleaven, our head teacher. Please tell her everything.”

“Less than half an hour ago, ma’am. I brought her here directly, soon as I could tell what she was saying.”

Hope rippled through Mary. If this woman had spoken within the last half-hour, and spoken clearly enough to give an address, she might still live. They had to believe that. Unless Mary was grievously mistaken, this woman was the agent who had been trailing Angelica Thorold today.

“You called for a physician, of course?” Anne’s voice was recognizable now.

“Yes.” Mary bent over the woman again, trying to see just how much blood was seeping from the wound. “Would you be so kind as to shine this light upon the lady?” she asked the cabman, pointing at a small table lamp. He complied, but the beam of yellow light shook. “Did you notice anybody with her? Or running away from her, perhaps?”

“I–I don’t know, miss. I was that surprised.”

Two maids arrived, bearing hot water and other supplies. Mary placed a cushion beneath Miss Murchison’s chest and said, over her shoulder, “Steady with the light, if you please.”

“Allow me,” said Anne Treleaven. The light bobbed for a moment, then became stable. “Please do sit down, Mr, er…?”

The pause was long enough that Mary glanced round, just in time to see the cabbie’s eyelids flutter as he swayed gently backwards. Anne turned a moment later, but neither woman was in time to catch him as he crashed to the floor, rattling every lamp, table and ornament on the ground floor. Mary winced.

“Poor fellow,” murmured Anne. “He’s had little thanks for being a Good Samaritan.” She knelt on the carpet and began to slap his cheeks firmly and dispassionately. As Anne roused the squeamish cabman, Mary returned her attention to Miss Murchison and began cutting away her cloak.

A faint groan came from the cab driver. “Oh, Lordy, what a nightmare!”

“I must ask you to keep still a few minutes longer, sir,” said Anne. “I’m afraid you fainted.”

“Eh?” The testy confusion in the man’s voice would have been amusing, but for the present emergency. “What’s that you say?”

“You fainted, sir,” said Anne, raising her voice slightly. “Do keep still in case the dizziness returns.”

Silence. Then, “I thought this were all a nightmare.”

“I wish it was so, too. But I’m afraid it’s very real, and we are extremely grateful that you brought our friend back to us.”

“She alive?”

“I–I don’t know.” Anne’s voice was leached of emotion. “Mary?”

“I think so.” Mary breathed a prayer that she would be able to distinguish between help and harm. All agents received some basic medical training in case of emergency, but she had never dealt with a wound this severe. She opened the cloak and began scissoring through Miss Murchison’s brown woollen shirtwaist. It sprang open willingly, revealing a bloodstained corset and, just above that, a one-inch slit framing a knife blade. Mary placed a clean towel around the wound and pressed firmly. “She’s bleeding fairly slowly, for now. If the physician arrives soon…”

A deep sigh: the sound of a large man hauling himself, painfully, to a seated position. “I found her over in Camden Town,” he said. “She were leaning against a lamppost, waving, trying to get a cab. I thought she’d been on the gin, at first, she were that unsteady on her feet. And why didn’t she just find a taxi rank, if it came to that? Anyway, there weren’t nobody else stopping, and I’d have driven on, too. Only the look on her face, it weren’t the face of a dru— begging pardon, I mean, a lady indisposed. I thought, here’s a lady in genuine trouble, and what’s she doing in Camden, anyway?”

The room was utterly silent, save for the faint whisper of the lamp. “Go on, please,” murmured Anne.

“It weren’t until I tried to help her into the cab that I saw that blooming great thing sticking out her back. By the time I got her inside, she didn’t have much breath. She asked me to bring her here. I said shouldn’t I take her to a hospital, and quick, but she said no, just here. After that, I didn’t ask no more questions, ma’am; it were plain that she were in a bad way.”

“You did the right thing,” said Anne, “and you shall be rewarded for your kindness and clear thinking.” She turned to Mary. “Are you able to stay with Ivy until the doctor arrives? There are a few things I must see to.”

Mary nodded. Anne would need to mobilize all possible Agency staff to search for both Angelica and Mrs Thorold. “I shall let you know the moment Miss Murchison says anything,” she said. And with a quiet swish of skirts, Anne Treleaven vanished, leaving Mary and the cabman to their awkward vigil.

Mary stared at Ivy Murchison’s face, which was drained of colour and pinched with pain. Was it a shade paler now? Impossible to be certain. She snipped the corset strings, too, and with that loosening, thought she could see the woman’s ribcage rising and falling with each breath. She drew comfort from that and refused to allow her imagination to run riot.

The doctor was taking his time. While she waited, she cleaned the wound with vinegar and water and daubed honey around the oozing hole to help it heal. She changed the towels and continued to stanch the blood. She endeavoured to ignore the ticking of the mantelpiece clock, and tried also not to curse as she wondered how long they might wait for a physician.

When he finally arrived, irritable and impatient, Anne accompanied him into the room. Her face expressed no great confidence in the man, but she kept her lips pressed tightly together. He pulled off his gloves and dropped them on his medical bag; his fingernails were dirty. There was macassar oil on his collar. When Mary described what she had done thus far, his professional
amour-propre
was offended. “Far better to leave the doctoring to professionals,” he sneered. “A lady’s timid poking about invariably makes things worse.”

He ordered Miss Murchison moved to a bedroom, where he braced himself against her shoulder and jerked out the blade with considerable grunting effort. Its removal was accompanied by a huge gush of blood, so copious that both Mary and Anne gasped. The bleeding seemed as though it would never end. After far too long, he dropped the last sodden towel on the floor and ordered that the wound be bandaged. Mary was relieved to do it herself, rather than trust those clumsy, grubby hands. From his battered medical bag, he produced a series of pills and powders, to be administered as rapidly as possible. He held out little hope for the patient, given the depth of the wound and the likelihood of infection. The bill reflected his absolute confidence in his judgement.

Mary saw him to the front door, struggling to contain her revulsion, then returned to Miss Murchison’s room, where Anne was sitting beside the bed. The physician had left a trail of mud across the braided rug, she noted numbly, and then she felt a flash of anger. Why couldn’t he use the boot-scraper, like everybody else?

“I’ll watch her tonight,” murmured Anne. “You should rest.”

“Any word of Angelica?”

Anne shook her head. “I have agents out searching for Mrs Thorold. If she’s with her mother, they will hopefully find them both. If she’s not, she’ll return on her own.”

Mary thought she understood. The Agency had fewer operatives these days. Some – perhaps many – had thrown their allegiance behind Felicity Frame when she departed. Others, like Mary, might have gone out on their own. For those who remained, Mrs Thorold’s treatment of Ivy Murchison could hardly be misinterpreted: it would have been simple enough to make an agent disappear, to tip her body into the Thames. But in allowing Miss Murchison the chance to find her way home, Mrs Thorold was sending a clear warning. “You’ve informed Scotland Yard, of course?” asked Mary. It was a question she’d never have dared to formulate before. It was a measure of just how much things had changed between her and Anne.

Anne’s hesitation was scarcely perceptible but managed, nevertheless, to communicate her surprise at being challenged. “Naturally.” There was a hint of hauteur in her voice as she wished Mary a good night.

For the first time in hours, Mary felt slightly amused. Even a very small reason to smile came as a relief after this ghastly evening. The smile carried her down to the kitchen, where she scrubbed her hands well, collected a hot-water bottle and a candle, and then up the stairs with weary legs and an aching head, and over the threshold of her bedroom.

Straight into the arms of Angelica Thorold.

Figuratively speaking, of course. Mary squinted into the room, just able to make out a figure the dim light. She was nearly persuaded that she was hallucinating, but no: Angelica was slumped on the chair beside her bed, still bundled into her hat and cloak. Her attention seemed to be fixed on something in the middle distance. Mary eased the hot-water bottle onto her bed and lit the oil lamp.

The additional light seemed to rouse Angelica. She blinked, as though waking, and looked vaguely in Mary’s direction. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hello,” replied Mary, for lack of a better greeting. After a moment, she added, “I’m glad to see you safely back.”

There was a pause. Then, with visible effort, Angelica said, “I hope I didn’t create cause for alarm. There was— That is, I had a great deal to think about. After the funeral.”

Mary nodded and sat down carefully, facing Angelica. She took care to move slowly and quietly, half afraid that, like a wild animal, Angelica might suddenly take flight. “It must have been very difficult,” she murmured.

“What? Oh. Well, yes, it was. Difficult.” Angelica seemed on the verge of saying something else, then abruptly closed her mouth.

“Was everything adequately prepared?” asked Mary, after a short interval.

Angelica snorted, although there was little humour in the sound. “Oh! I’m no judge of funerals. All my life, I’ve been considered too delicate to attend. Suddenly, I’m not only the chief mourner; I’m the only mourner.” She sighed. “They buried my father. That is all I know.”

Bitterness and a tendency to melodrama, noted Mary. Was that better or worse than feeling numb? Which rendered Angelica more likely to fall in with her mother’s designs? She wondered how to broach the delicate subject of Mrs Thorold. “Have you eaten at all?” she asked, although she thought she knew the answer.

“I beg your pardon?” Angelica shook her head, stirred once again from her private thoughts. “Oh. No. But I’m not hungry.”

Mary nodded. “Impossible to think of food, I know. But allow me to get a pot of tea.” She stepped into the corridor, and luck was with her: she met a pupil at the top of the staircase. A night-time tea tray was one of the privileges of a teacher or guest, and the girl nodded amiably and went to relay the message to the kitchen maid.