One
June 1910, London
The man lay limp against the wall, muddy cobbles for a bed, dank refuse for a pillow. His lungs longed to breathe, but he didn’t dare let them.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Near enough.’
The voices of the men as they lifted him were low and hoarse, or perhaps they were simply hoarse. Their strange hands dug in under his armpits. Slimy paper stuck to his face. He cared about nothing but the burning pain in his throat and chest. Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe.
‘Not sure about leaving him here, mate.’
‘Ain’t yer? I am. He looks like a tramp. He’ll be gone in a bit if he ain’t already. I don’t wanna hang around here and get involved, even if you do.’
Somewhere a long way off there were noises. Rattling wheels, clopping hooves, a whinny, low sustained swearing. He was dropped face-down in the litter again.
‘We shouldna brung him this way.’
‘Bin the other way too often.’
‘We shoulda chucked him in the river.’
‘The sun’s up, we’d have got seen. Bring those dustbins round to hide him a bit. If he ain’t quite dead yet, I suppose we could …’
The man heard something being slapped against someone’s palm. Another palm pressed against his mouth and nose. With every ounce of what strength he had left, the man held his breath.
The palm withdrew. ‘I think he’s gorn,’ said its owner. ‘So you needn’t get blood on that cosh.’
‘You calling me an amachewer?’
‘Watch out! There’s a copper at the end of the alley. Scarper!’
‘Hey! You two!’ a third voice bellowed, and then a whistle blew.
The clatter of boots faded away, then others came near and stopped. Turning his head, the man saw polished regulation toe-caps, then felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.
‘They’ve got away, the – Do you know them? What did they do to you? What’s your name?’
The questions bounced and collided in the man’s head. His breath exploded in a boiling cough and he tasted blood in his mouth. He drank the air, fetid with coal dust, tar, mud and worse.
‘Eli,’ he said. ‘Eli … Can …’ His words were swallowed in a bout of coughing.
‘Here, Mr Can, easy. Don’t talk. Let’s get you to the workhouse sharpish. It’s closer than the hospital. The workhouse’ll put you right in no time.’ The constable’s hands were gentle as he lifted, and so was his voice. But the voice held no hope.
Two
In the West End tea shop, Dr Margaret Demeray wondered if a day off work might be harder than a day at the hospital.
It had started with her young cousin Beatrix in a crisis. The girl fiddled with her cup, a mass of agitation and excitement. ‘How can I go to finishing school and leave him behind? Could you have done it?’
Margaret tried to appear as if she knew. At seventeen, unhampered by first love, she’d only been interested in obtaining a place at Oxford. Now thirty-six, she felt conflicting emotions: affronted to be considered old enough to give advice, flattered that she’d been trusted with a secret … and exasperated with Bee’s unexpected metamorphosis from mischievous to sentimental. Something had to be said.
‘Of course not, Bee.’ She leant forward, ostensibly to take her companion’s hand, but in reality to save the teacup’s handle from being snapped off. ‘And I know exactly what you should do now.’
‘Do you?’ Bee breathed. She was tall, buxom and pretty. Her thick, dark hair was largely hidden by a fashionable hat, trimmed in a blue which complemented her eyes.
‘At least, I know what I’d have done at your age,’ Margaret continued. ‘I’d have told this young man I loved him and made him elope with me.’
‘Ooh,’ said Bee. ‘Mama says you used to be a little wilful – I mean independent.’
‘And then in no time,’ concluded Margaret, ‘you’ll have a sweet little baby and then another and another, but you won’t have to suffer fussing nursemaids –you’d have them all to your very self to care for all on your very own.’
Now Bee folded her arms. ‘That’s not very romantic.’
Margaret shrugged and poured another cup of tea. ‘Alternatively, you could make finishing school fun, or go to university, or get some sort of job like your mother did.’
‘But I just want to be in love.’ Bee’s lip wobbled. ‘I want excitement.’
‘Testing the finishing school’s rules to their extremes will be exciting. Besides, you’ve only met this young man a few times and spoken to him properly once.’
‘That’s not my fault. There’s always some old woman watching and stepping in if we say more than “hello”.’
Margaret, who had been unhampered by effective chaperones, felt a pang of sympathy until Bee muttered, ‘You don’t understand. You’re married to your job. Mama says you’ll never give up being single. You don’t know what it is to be madly in love, to – Oh.’ She dropped her voice and swallowed. ‘I forgot.’
Margaret sighed. ‘You were very young when Owen and I rushed into that marriage and we separated soon after.’
‘And you were old enough to know better,’ snapped Bee. ‘Just because your feelings for Mr Norbury weren’t real love, you assume mine can’t be. And he’s been dead for six years and you still haven’t remarried. Not even Dr Trewellan.’
‘Dr Trewellan is my friend, and he’s no more interested in marrying me than I him. He has no interest in marrying any woman. And I should want quite a different sort of man.’
Bee huffed. ‘Then you’ve forgotten how it feels to just want to be with someone. You’re happy with your cat and your public speaking and your … your dead people. I thought you’d understand, but you don’t.’ Bee rose, and dashed a gloved hand across her eyes. ‘You’ve got too old. I might run away, and then you’d all be sorry.’
‘I’ll be sorry not to see your new dress at the fundraising ball.’
Bee hesitated then stuck her chin up. ‘Of course you’ll see it. I’m hardly going to give notice of running away. In the meantime, I hope you have a very sensible afternoon.’ She stalked off.
If I weren’t worn out from arguing last night, she’d have got both barrels of my temper, thought Margaret, preparing to pay the bill. She had few qualms about Bee, whose mother had passed on a solid streak of common sense. Bee would probably spend so much time deciding what to pack for an elopement that she’d lose interest before she did it.
Delving for her purse, Margaret extracted a folded page of vacancies from the British Medical Journal.
Is wanting to do something different the same as running away? Is that what everyone will say? She pushed the paper back into her bag and rummaged again. When did I start caring what people say? Sensible, indeed. Margaret extracted her purse in triumph and the bag slipped sideways from her lap.
‘Excuse me, madam, you seem to have dropped this …’
Margaret glanced up. A dark-blond man stood beside her. His gloved hand held out a slim, well-thumbed book: A Lady in Babylon by Maisie Frobisher.
‘Oh drat,’ she said. ‘I mean, thank you.’
The man passed over the volume. ‘How much do you suppose is true?’
‘All of it,’ said Margaret. She smiled at his surprise and added, ‘I’m acquainted with the author. She isn’t one to let convention get in the way of adventure.’
The man suddenly grinned. ‘Good for her. Don’t you think, Dr Demeray?’
Margaret nodded with a chuckle.
The stranger scanned the crowded tea shop and indicated Bee’s chair. ‘Would you object if I joined you?’
‘Oh,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s quite all right, I’m about to leave.’ She rose. ‘Thank you for spotting the book.’
He gave a small bow as she passed on. When she glanced back he was watching her, his hand on the back of a chair, his green-blue eyes twinkling, his mouth still ready to laugh and for a fleeting second, running his gaze from her head to feet, then back to her face.
Half-wondering what would have happened if she’d shared the table after all, Margaret was still smiling when she paused to wonder how he’d known her name, let alone her title. She withdrew the book to see what she’d written inside.
Maisie had inscribed a flourishing dedication, Never be too easily satisfied, under which a neat label declared Ex Libris Margaret Demeray and beneath, in Margaret’s own scrawl, Mortuary Wing, St Julia's Free Hospital for Chest Disease.
The man couldn’t have had time to read it, and it didn’t say she was a doctor. He must have been to one of her talks. She glanced at her watch and shrugged. There was no time to wonder about it. She’d promised to lunch with a former colleague and now she was late.
***
‘I’m sorry,’ said Margaret. ‘I had a sort of family emergency to deal with.’
‘What has your father done now?’ Dr Gilbert Trewellan gave a wry smile.
Margaret shook her head. ‘Not Father. Bee Lamont, Connie and Albert’s daughter. You know.’
‘Ah,’ said Gil. ‘What’s she done?’
Margaret waved the question away. ‘Relatives aside, what do I look like?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘What do I look like?’
Gil gave her a brief appraisal. ‘I don’t really know what to say. Fashionable? A dress with an excess of pleats and buttons and a hat with half a ribbon factory on it.’
‘I wear the most awful drab things in the laboratory,’ argued Margaret. ‘I’m blowed if I'll be dreary outside.’ The pleasure she’d felt in her new outfit faded a little until she recalled the stranger’s admiring glance. She felt herself flush. ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ she continued. ‘I meant, do I look like a shrivelled old lady or a woman in her prime? A doctor or a madam?’
‘A madam?’ Gil’s puzzlement was replaced with horror.
‘Not that kind of madam. I mean, do I look like a boring, respectable woman or like a woman with a profession?’
‘I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about,’ said Gil. ‘You look like a woman wearing a pink dress.’
‘It’s not pink, it’s damask rose. The general idea is to be attractive.’
Gil shrugged. ‘You’re always attractive.’ He suddenly grinned and leaned across the table to whisper in her ear. ‘Though you do smell nicer out of the mortuary.’
Margaret giggled. ‘I should hope a scent like Chypre is preferable to formaldehyde.’
‘However do they choose such stupid names for perfume?’ Gil shook his head. ‘How was the meeting last night?’
Margaret grimaced. ‘I gained some donations for the hospital but enraged a landlord who says a woman can’t understand why it’s impossible to make houses sanitary, and in any event doing so would discourage the working class from bettering themselves.’
‘Did you argue back very viciously?’
‘Only a little.’
‘What colour was his face by the time you’d finished?’
‘Purple: it clashed with his tie. But he survived. And I received a small cheer from a tenants’ association.’
Gil grinned, glanced at his pocket-watch and scanned the restaurant. ‘Randall’s joining us.’
‘Is he?’ said Margaret. ‘He didn’t mention it the other evening or yesterday before the hospital board meeting.’
‘I think it’s the board meeting he wants to talkabout.’
‘It’s my day off!’
‘You ought to know what he’s like,’ said Gil. ‘You’ve known him for ages and been letting him drag you to interminable concerts and lectures for at least twelve months.’
‘One can’t be at the musical theatre all the time.’
‘You should insist on more interesting lectures though. He might think you like that sort of thing.’ Gil took off his glasses and polished them. ‘Before he joins us, can I ask you something? Unless you need to talk about your family emergency—’
Margaret shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you anything except that apparently I’m a passionless old crone who lives only for her cat.’
Gil blinked. ‘My word, that was a bit low.’
‘Don’t worry about Bee, it’ll blow over. Actually, I have something to ask you too.’
‘After you, then.’
‘No, you.’
Margaret pushed her handbag about with her foot wishing she’d taken the chance to speak first, picturing the page of vacancies: the Swiss sanatorium, the Canadian clinic …
Gil replaced his glasses and ran his hand through the dark brown curls springing over his brow. He’d forgotten to oil his hair fashionably smooth and his collar was, as usual, missing a stud and coming adrift.
‘Are you wondering how we’re getting on without you at St J's?’ Margaret prompted.
Gil grimaced. ‘I’m sure you’re doing well, but I do miss it. Or rather, I miss the days when I felt I’d healed someone. But then there were the others … I’m desperate to see a cure for tuberculosis. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to join Randall in pharmaceuticals.’
‘How is it?’
‘The laboratory is everything I hoped it would be, doing everything I want to be part of. I know it also makes patent medicines, half of which are probably little more than chalk and peppermint, but the money they make pays for research into a cure. If Randall and I just keep trying—’ He paused as the waiter appeared with a half bottle of wine. ‘His father puts pressure on him, I know. But Randall’s very competent. I’m proud he asked me, and of course the money’s good. I can pay for your lunch, for once.’
‘You don’t need to,’ said Margaret. ‘What did you want to ask me?’
Gil contemplated his glass. ‘Am I wasting my time?’
‘Of course not. Someone has to find a cure. Why shouldn’t it be you?’
‘Has Randall ever suggested you join the company too?’
‘Once. I said chemistry was my worst science and that I preferred pathology. Next thing I’m being bombarded with books to change my mind. What’s his father like? He sounds a positive tyrant.’
‘Never met him. He conducts the business from his home. The staff have his decrees read to them every morning.’ Gil sat back, his shoulders relaxed. ‘Once I’m settled in properly I shall take you to the theatre. Which do you fancy, variety or avant-garde? You know me—I can find the best of either.’
‘Can’t you just.’
Gil grinned. ‘What did you want to ask?’
Margaret handed over the page of vacancies. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I was wondering about a change myself. What do you think?’
‘Isn’t it enough to be the only senior female pathologist in London?’
‘Of course it is, but—’
‘Did I mishear the time we were lunching?’ Randall Simmonds appeared at the table. ‘I’ve had a very trying morning but I didn’t realise I was late.’
‘We were a little early,’ said Gil. ‘Margaret’s been regaling me with tales of her righteous fury last night.’
Randall took in Gil’s general dishevelment as he flicked an invisible piece of lint from his own immaculate jacket, then considered Margaret. ‘Your outfit is very becoming, if frivolous.’
‘Good,’ said Margaret.
Randall took his seat and peered across at Gil. ‘Interesting article?’
Gil folded up the page and handed it back to Margaret. ‘Not really. You said there was something you wanted to discuss with both of us.’
‘Margaret’s name has been put forward for something extremely important.’ Randall smiled and patted her arm.
Margaret withdrew it. ‘What?’
‘An international symposium. They want an address about British progress in the treatment of lung disease.’
Margaret blinked. ‘Really? Why me? It should be Gil. He’s been treating patients for years. I’m just the one seeing how well the treatments work.’
‘Or not, since the patient is usually dead,’ grunted Gil into his wine glass, startling the waiter who had arrived to take an order.
‘The table d’hôte for all of us,’ said Randall, waving him away before the others could intervene.
‘I’m sure you’re moving forward, though,’ said Margaret. ‘And besides, Randall, it could be you giving the talk. You are quite as interested in developing a cure as Gil.’
‘But I’ve never been a practitioner,’ said Randall. ‘I’m just a patent chemist.’
‘Hardly that,’ argued Gil. ‘Your ideas—’
Randall waved his words away. ‘I’ll be frank with you. Some of the board wanted Trewellan to give the address, but others argued that Margaret is the more experienced and engaging speaker of the two of you, even if, due to her sex, her audiences tend to be small. She can make a subject come alive without being excessively passionate.’
‘Huh,’ said Margaret.
‘The symposium organisers will be at the ball next week,’ said Randall. ‘So it’s essential we give a good impression.’ He smoothed his neat beard and fixed Gil with another appraising stare. ‘I hope you’ll remember where you keep your evening attire this time, Trewellan.’
‘I know perfectly well where it is, Simmonds,’ retorted Gil. ‘But two of the governors have no recourse to such an item. If people look down on them for it, they can look down on me too.’
Randall shook his head. ‘Whitechapel Wilkins and Bunce of Bow. I’ve never understood why the board insisted on adding working-class representation. But be that as it may, you needn’t slum it with them.’
‘Do stop squabbling,’ said Margaret.
‘I should be delighted to be your escort,’ said Randall.
‘I’d already offered,’ said Gil. ‘Maybe I’ll wear evening dress or maybe a bathing suit. Perhaps Margaret will wear scarlet trousers. You’ll have to wait and see!’
‘Tsk,’ said Randall.
Gil grinned. ‘Margaret and I shall discuss lecture ideas later this afternoon.’
‘I’m sure you can do that some other time,’ said Randall, filling his glass. ‘I wanted to talk over some of our findings.’
‘I’m afraid I shall do neither,’ said Margaret, determined to rescue some of her day. ‘I am going to find something frivolous to do.’