The bedlam cadaver, p.31
The Bedlam Cadaver, page 31
‘Who?’ Königsmarck said. ‘I know nothing of them.’
Monmouth looked disappointedly at him. ‘The Order of Knights of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem. To deny it is to betray your conscience. I have considerable support at the Post Office, and at the Office of Codebreaking. My intelligencers tell me that you would earn a sizeable fortune for the contents of this box. Seeking to promote the Catholic cause, you take your orders from Malta. You were given the task of taking the Black Box for the Pope. If he possesses these papers, then I do not. He desires a Catholic on England’s throne after my father. Namely, my uncle James, Duke of York.’
Königsmarck sneered, as if the Duke was sadly mistaken, and as if, in any case, such a thing was inconsequential.
* * *
HARRY COULD SEE THE BOX. It sat on the floor at the foot of the bed.
‘You’ve not yet opened it,’ he observed.
‘I tried to, but it resisted,’ Königsmarck replied. Even though he had been found out and prevented from escaping to Europe to claim his reward for the box, the Count still preserved an air of cheerfulness.
‘Speaking of resisting, do we have an agreement that you will not?’ Monmouth asked him.
Königsmarck smiled wryly at the men surrounding him. ‘I am outnumbered. So, yes, as one gentleman to another, let us make that promise.’
Monmouth looked relieved, although, as the Count had pointed out, he had numbers on his side. He clasped Königsmarck by the shoulder. ‘In any other circumstances, I am sure we would be friends. I shall speak to my father and do all I can for you.’
He switched his attention to the Justice. ‘Let us try to open this box. Sir John, I trust you to report truthfully on what we find. Again, as gentlemen, one with another. You would not resort to subterfuge, I hope, to please my father.’
Sir John looked discomfited. ‘On my honour, I would not. But I would prefer it to be opened in front of His Majesty.’
‘He has always denied his marriage to my mother.’ Monmouth could not quite keep bitterness from his tone. ‘At the Palace, the truth would forever be obscured.’
‘I believe you a man of honour, Your Grace,’ Sir John said. ‘As I pride myself to be. So, yes, let us try to open the box, here and now.’
‘Mr. Hunt said you have the key, Sir John,’ Königsmarck said. ‘I heard him tell Thomas Thynne so at Pall Mall.’
‘No, sir, not I,’ Sir John replied. ‘Why thought you that, Mr. Hunt?’
‘I said it when trying to convince Mr. Thynne to give up the box. I wanted to save him from harm.’
Sir John looked at him mistrustfully, not understanding how it could have done.
Fenn, Kidd, and Singer all withdrew their pocketknives at the same time. As Kidd’s looked the most substantial, he took on the role of box opener. He picked up the box and placed it onto Königsmarck’s bed, then inserted his blade into the fine gap under the lid. He slid it around, feeling for the bolt, then tapped his knife on both its sides, to show those watching him how substantial a piece of metal it was. Far larger than anyone might expect for the size of the box.
‘I cannot get through that,’ Kidd said.
‘Try to puncture one of the sides,’ Monmouth suggested, his voice rising.
Taking a firm grip of his knife’s handle, Kidd stabbed at the box. As had Thomas Thynne’s efforts, it only removed a flake of paint.
‘The Palace it must be, then,’ Sir John said, with some relief. ‘The King has men and tools to prise it apart. We can take the box there, as we take Count Königsmarck.’
Monmouth looked around the room, looking for anything that might open the lid. He was flushed, and his face was shiny with perspiration.
Seeing the Duke’s obvious upset, Harry undid a button on the front of his shirt. ‘Sir John,’ he said. ‘Your Grace. I have the key.’
‘Why did you not say before?’ Sir John demanded.
‘I didn’t know what best to do,’ Harry replied. ‘I’ve only just decided.’
The Justice looked despairingly at the Marshalman, Fenn, then back at Harry. ‘You are an amphibious creature, Mr. Hunt. I have never known quite how to take you.’
‘Take me as I am,’ Harry replied. ‘I seek to do what’s right. Or, at least, that which is least wrong.’ Harry took the chain from around his neck and held up the brass key to show them all. ‘Diana Cantley had this with her when she was murdered. It was in with her clothes at Gresham College. I assume it’s for the box.’
He made no mention of Thomas Crawley taking it for its silver chain.
‘And you have had it ever since?’ Sir John asked.
‘Around my neck seemed the safest place to keep it.’
‘Do not keep us on tenterhooks,’ Monmouth urged Harry. ‘Try it!’ The Duke’s nervousness was now agitation. He could not keep his hands still. Kidd and Singer, too, both twitched with fretful energy.
All the men pressed closer to Harry as he introduced the key to its hole.
With one full rotation, the bolt retracted smoothly.
Before opening it, Harry contemplated all the men crowded into the room with him. Monmouth was in a state of distraction, staring wide-eyed, his fingers curling open and closed repetitively. Königs-marck looked imploringly at Harry, desperate to know what was inside the box. Sir John glared at the box, looking sterner than Harry had ever seen him. Fenn’s mouth twitched at the corners, and his eyes shone; he seemed amused by the situation. Only Kidd and Singer seemed unflustered, having less investment in the box’s contents.
Harry lifted the lid. Inside was a package wrapped in paper and kept closed with red wax, a simple seal impressed into it.
Monmouth moved next to Harry to look at it. ‘I do not recognise the mark,’ he said. ‘Not my father’s. My mother never had such a thing, so far as I have seen. It is not the Walter seal her father used.’
Harry lifted the package out from the box and looked questioningly at the Justice.
‘Give it to the Duke,’ Sir John said. ‘He should open it.’
Monmouth slid a shaking finger under the paper, breaking the seal. He unwrapped the package, dropping its covering onto the floor.
He stared at the contents for a long moment, without saying a word. His eyes were glassy, his face pale and sheeny, as if about to faint.
Slowly, he passed the package to Sir John.
It was not what any of the men expected a marriage certificate to resemble.
It was a book.
Sir John held it up for them all to see.
It was a copy of William Gouge’s Of Domesticall Duties, describing the duties of husbands, and of their wives, and of the right conjunction between them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
THE UGLY WORD
When Joseph Matthews recognised who it was, he looked wretchedly guilty.
‘Alone this time, I see,’ he said.
‘I am,’ Harry answered. ‘Count Königsmarck and his men are held for Thomas Thynne’s murder—Thynne died from his wounds last night—and the Justice is unconcerned by Sebiliah Barton’s death. Or by what happened to her.’
‘What happened to her?’ Matthews said, through the bars of the the penny-gate as he unlocked it. ‘Do you come to ask us, or to tell?’
After the searing heat and brightness outside, the lobby’s coolness and relative gloom were welcome.
‘A little of both,’ Harry said. ‘I know most of it, I think. Is your wife here?’
Bethlehem’s Porter, Harry was learning, was a transparent man; the question obviously crushed him.
‘She’s told you,’ Harry said.
‘She has. Perhaps not all.’
‘I’d like to speak to your daughter, too.’
Matthews took a pace one way, then the other, and for a second looked as if he would raise his fists to Harry. Instead, looking defeated, he went to find his family: his wife, the Hospital’s Matron, and Hannah, one of its Nurses.
Overhearing them, the Steward, Carter, had appeared from his office. ‘By what authority do you come to Bethlehem, Mr. Hunt, to speak with our staff?’
‘Why, by the authority of what’s right.’
Carter looked unpersuaded. ‘I shall ask Dr. Allen for his say-so.’
‘Is Mr. Lester here, too? Also, your Basketmen, Mr. Langdale and Mr. Jones.’
Grumbling loudly enough to ensure Harry heard him, Carter went across the lobby’s polished floor to the Physician’s office. Left alone for a moment, Harry looked around him, at the lobby, and at all its carved cherub heads. They, in turn, watched him, their blank eyes accusing—the one shot by Joseph Fenn’s pistol the most accusing of all.
Carter reappeared and beckoned Harry into the office, where Thomas Allen sat in the big chair behind his desk, and Jeremy Lester perched on a stool at the old workbench.
Allen made no show of contrition for having confined Elizabeth Thynne at her husband’s behest, nor for then taking her to his private asylum in Finsbury at the Duke’s. Lester, the Apothecary, looked as lethargic as ever.
‘Mr. Carter tells me you have asked for Mr. Jones and Mr. Langdale,’ Allen said.
‘Yes, and the Porter’s wife and daughter,’ Harry replied.
‘She made no sign of her distress!’
‘Sebiliah, you mean? You could not guess at it? I doubt that. No, you knew of it well, and put it aside. After all, your expertise is in identifying and assuaging distress. I wonder how much attention you paid to Sebiliah at all. She was quiet and caused no trouble. You knew she would not protest, whatever the abuse she suffered.’
Allen left the comfort of his chair and drew himself to the limit of his unexceptional height. He pushed back his wig from where it had slipped down his forehead. ‘There are too many patients—’
‘Too many patients, too many visitors, too few staff,’ Harry interrupted. ‘And too little money coming in. I remember you saying so in my elaboratory, when you identified Sebiliah. Nothing of that justifies mistreating the people in your care.’
A thump of his fist on the desk accompanied Allen’s self-righteous look of outrage. Harry stared evenly at him, thinking his performance was more than half bluster. He could not bring himself to believe Allen really sought to justify such behaviour from his staff. If he left Allen to it, Harry thought, the Physician would ensure Jones and Langdale were punished, as long as Harry did not threaten to make public their abuse.
Anyways, there was more to come: Harry had not yet told Allen of the Matron’s role in swapping Sebiliah Barton and Diana Cantley.
Allen huffed at Harry, then walked around his desk. ‘We should take this up to the Court Room,’ he said. ‘More private there. Come with me, please, Mr. Carter. Mr. Lester, will you tell Mr. Matthews, on his return, where we have gone? And accompany him there after you do.’
* * *
ALLEN USED HIS OWN KEY TO open the gates at the bottom, then the top, of the staircase. Once on the women’s gallery, he turned immediately into the spacious Court Room, where the Hospital’s committee meetings took place. Two impressive fireplaces faced each other under an intricately decorated ceiling. One wall displayed a pair of Robert Hooke’s architectural drawings; one detailed Bethlehem’s north elevation—the grander, more public-facing side—the other, plans of its galleries. On the opposite wall hung a Holbein portrait of Henry VIII, as oversized as its subject.
Allen ushered in Harry and Carter. This time, Harry noticed—unlike when he and Sir John had interviewed Allen before, downstairs in his office—the Physician was careful to close the door. Rather than sitting at the enormous table, Allen stood by the windows overlooking Moorfields.
‘The Justice treated William Jones badly,’ Allen complained, as Harry sat himself down. ‘Then decided he was innocent of wrongdoing. Why should you need to speak with him?’
‘Being held in the Justice’s lockup scarcely compares with his treatment of Sebiliah.’
‘Of what do you accuse Mr. Jones?’ Allen demanded.
‘Wait until he’s here. Then act as his defender. Although, I’ve no authority. This isn’t the Bench. Sebiliah killed herself, so the Justice’s interest is nought. In a suicide, the culprit is clear. But I hold you the more responsible. You and your staff.’
At that moment, Jones and Langdale arrived with Matthews. They must have argued on the way; all three men were red-faced, their breathing quick. Jones and Langdale looked resentful. The Porter’s face was grim. He motioned to Carter for him to take charge of the Basketmen. ‘I’ll find Millicent and Hannah,’ he said, and left them.
William Jones eyed Harry belligerently. ‘Already had time with the Justice, I did.’ In his resentment, his Welsh accent sounded even stronger. ‘He couldn’t make me say I killed the rich man’s daughter! Innocent, I am.’
‘Have you not heard?’ Harry asked. ‘Thomas Thynne, a Member of Parliament for the Country Party, killed Diana Cantley. No, Mr. Jones, it’s Sebiliah’s death I hold you liable for. You and Mr. Langdale were the cause of her despair.’
‘I never gave her the needle,’ Langdale said dismissively.
‘You gave her reason to put it into her own neck.’
‘I’ve no need to listen to this.’ Langdale turned to leave, but Carter prodded him in the back and glowered at him, making him sit at the table.
At a sign from Allen, Jones sat, too. He tipped back his chair petulantly, making the wood strain.
‘Your abuse put Sebiliah into despair,’ Harry accused the Basketmen. ‘So much so, she committed suicide. Most think ending your own life’s a sin, though the Bible says nothing against it. Corinthians, perhaps, with its talk of temples. You must see suicide as murder to be one. I for one do not. I bet, though, Sebiliah felt guilt for it. I bet she expected no better for her baby. She couldn’t bear for it to suffer, as she had suffered. And besides, it was a bastard child, condemned to be looked down upon. I imagine she felt shame for it—even though she had no say in the child’s conception.’
Harry felt his anger growing ever greater, and found he was speaking ever faster. He had started to gabble. He remembered Sir John’s words to him: The word is rape, Mr. Hunt. An ugly word, but the right one. He stopped his tirade and forced himself to calm, and to breathe more regularly.
‘You cannot be sure it was either of these men,’ Dr. Allen said, using his consoling doctor voice.
‘I can be sure,’ Harry replied. ‘When I spoke to them last time, downstairs in your office, Hannah Matthews sent them a look. Both men refused to meet it.’
‘That’s a look, that is,’ Jones said. ‘Not proof, is it?’ He rubbed his eyes brusquely. His usual satirical expression was missing. Despite his words, his face and posture showed only contrition.
Harry was not to be swayed. ‘I remember you, Dr. Allen, had just told us Sebiliah’s father was a widower, who died soon after her admittance into Bethlehem. She had no family or visitors, you said. Only the staff who ministered to her needs. I know not what brought Sebiliah here, but I know this Hospital brought her no comfort. She had the habit of pulling at her hair, so hard her scalp came away. I say habit, for she did this to herself over some time. Her skin was a mix of raw and healed.’
He looked at Jones, then at Langdale.
‘No, you gave her no comfort. I can’t know which of you is the father. I presume you both forced yourselves upon her. How many other patients along the women’s gallery must dread your proximity?’
Neither Basketman answered.
Full of scorn, Harry turned from them to focus on the Physician.
‘I used to think of you as kindly, Dr. Allen. As a man who cared for your patients. But money overrules your care. You accepted Mr. Thynne’s money to confine his wife, then the Duke of Monmouth’s to continue her captivity. You run your Finsbury asylum for profit. You’re just as mercenary as Count Königsmarck and his men with their soldiering.’
A firm knock at the door prevented Allen’s remonstration. The bulky form of the Matron, Millicent Matthews, came in, then her equally bulky husband, Joseph Matthews, followed by their daughter, Hannah. The Apothecary, Lester, came with them. They all found places at the table. Allen, at last, sat down, and Carter, too.
The last time Harry spoke to Hannah, he had been gentle with her. He used a far firmer tone now. ‘You knew what these two Basketmen did to Sebiliah. But you said nothing of it.’
Although her lower lip trembled, Hannah answered him just as firmly. ‘I don’t remember you asking us of the why Sebiliah used a needle on her neck. You wanted only the details of the how, the when, and the where. Some wealthy woman she was swapped for at Gresham was far more on your mind.’
‘I did not know then that Sebiliah expected a child. You all—’ Harry stopped himself. ‘You’re quite right, Hannah,’ he said, softening his voice. ‘I did not think enough of the why. I knew Sebiliah to be melancholy and took the thought no further. Later, her body was transported to my home. Not something I wished for, I should be clear. That was when I discovered she was pregnant. Not until then did I concern myself with the why. For that, I’m sorry.’
‘Where’s her body now?’ Hannah asked. Harry’s apology had hardly mollified her.
‘Buried. At St. Giles-in-the-Fields, in the churchyard there.’
What Harry did not add was that he had visited, but not for Sebiliah’s sake. Instead, he went to see Diana Cantley’s grave. An impressive monument, erected by Sir Benedict, had the details of Diana’s brief life inscribed under those of her mother; they lay together in the same plot.
