A Dangerous Mourning Read online

  “All medicine is only a matter of learning and observation!” Her voice was rising considerably now, and even the farther patients were beginning to take notice. “There are no rules except that if it works it is good, and if it does not then try something else.” She was exasperated almost beyond endurance with his stubborn stupidity. “If we never experiment we will never discover anything better than we have now, and people will go on dying when perhaps we could have cured them!”

  “And far more probably killed them with our ignorance!” he retaliated with finality. “You have no right to conduct experiments. You are an unskilled and willful woman, and if there is one more word of insubordination out of you, you will be dismissed. Do you understand me?”

  She hesitated a moment, meeting his eyes. There was no uncertainty in them, no slightest flexibility in his determination. If she kept silent now there was just the possibility he might come back later, when she was off duty, and give Mrs. Begley the quinine.

  “Yes, I understand.” She forced the words out, her hands clenched in the folds of her apron and skirt at her sides.

  But once again he could not leave well enough alone even after he had seemingly won.

  “Quinine does not work for postoperative fever infections, Miss Latterly,” he went on with mounting condescension. “It is for tropical fevers. And even then it is not always successful. You will dose the patient with ice and wash her regularly in cool water.”

  Hester breathed in and out very slowly. His complacency was insufferable.

  “Do you hear me?” he demanded.

  Before she could reply this time, one of the patients on the far side of the ward sat up, his face twisted in concentration.

  “She gave something to that child at the end when he had a fever after his operation,” he said clearly. “He was in a bad way, like to go into delirium. And after she did it four or five times he recovered. He’s cool as you like now. She knows what she’s doing—she’s right.”

  There was a moment’s awful silence. He had no idea what he had done.

  Pomeroy was stunned.

  “You gave loxa quinine to John Airdrie!” he accused, realization flooding into him. “You did it behind my back!” His voice rose, shrill with outrage and betrayal, not only by her but, even worse, by the patient.

  Then a new thought struck him.

  “Where did you get it from? Answer me, Miss Latterly! I demand you tell me where you obtained it! Did you have the audacity to send to the fever hospital in my name?”

  “No, Dr. Pomeroy. I have some quinine of my own—a very small amount,” she added hastily, “against fever. I gave him some of that.”

  He was trembling with rage. “You are dismissed, Miss Latterly. You have been a troublemaker since you arrived. You were employed on the recommendation of a lady who no doubt owed some favor to your family and had little knowledge of your irresponsible and willful nature. You will leave this establishment today! Whatever possessions you have here, take them with you. And there is no purpose in your asking for a recommendation. I can give you none!”

  There was silence in the ward. Someone rustled bedclothes.

  “But she cured the boy!” the patient protested. “She was right! ’e’s alive because of ’er!” The man’s voice was thick with distress, at last understanding what he had done. He looked at Pomeroy, then at Hester. “She was right!” he said again.

  Hester could at last afford the luxury of ceasing to care in the slightest what Pomeroy thought of her. She had nothing to lose now.

  “Of course I shall go,” she acknowledged. “But don’t let your pride prevent you from helping Mrs. Begley. She doesn’t deserve to die to save your face because a nurse told you what to do.” She took a deep breath. “And since everyone in this room is aware of it, you will find it difficult to excuse.”

  “Why you—you—!” Pomeroy spluttered, scarlet in the face but lost for words violent enough to satisfy his outrage and at the same time not expose his weakness. “You—”

  Hester gave him one withering look, then turned away and went over to the patient who had defended her, now sitting with the bedclothes in a heap around him and a pale face full of shame.

  “There is no need to blame yourself,” she said to him very gently, but clearly enough for everyone else in the ward to hear her. He needed his excusing to be known. “It was bound to happen that one day I should fall out with Dr. Pomeroy sufficiently for this to happen. At least you have spoken up for what you know, and perhaps you will have saved Mrs. Begley a great deal of pain, maybe even her life. Please do not criticize yourself for it or feel you have done me a disfavor. You have done no more than choose the time for what was inevitable.”

  “Are you sure, miss? I feel that badly!” He looked at her anxiously, searching her face for belief.

  “Of course I’m sure.” She forced herself to smile at him. “Have you not watched me long enough to judge that for yourself? Dr. Pomeroy and I have been on a course that was destined for collision from the beginning. And it was never possible that I should have the better of it.” She began to straighten the sheet around him. “Now take care of yourself—and may God heal you!” She took his hand briefly, then moved away again. “In spite of Pomeroy,” she added under her breath.

  When she had reached her rooms, and the heat of temper had worn off a little, she began to realize what she had done. She was not only without an occupation to fill her time, and financial means with which to support herself, she had also betrayed Callandra Daviot’s confidence in her and the recommendation to which she had given her name.

  She had a late-afternoon meal alone, eating only because she did not want to offend her landlady. It tasted of nothing. By five o’clock it was growing dark, and after the gas lamps were lit and the curtains were drawn the room seemed to narrow and close her in in enforced idleness and complete isolation. What should she do tomorrow? There was no infirmary, no patients to care for. She was completely unnecessary and without purpose to anyone. It was a wretched thought, and if pursued for long would undermine her to the point where she would wish to crawl into bed and remain there.

  There was also the extremely sobering thought that after a week or two she would have no money and be obliged to leave here and return to beg her brother, Charles, to provide a roof over her head until she could—what? It would be extremely difficult, probably impossible to gain another position in nursing. Pomeroy would see to that.

  She felt herself on the edge of tears, which she despised. She must do something. Anything was better than sitting here in this shabby room listening to the gas hissing in the silence and feeling sorry for herself. One unpleasant task to be done was explaining herself to Callandra. She owed her that, and it would be a great deal better done face-to-face than in a letter. Why not get that over with? It could hardly be worse than sitting here alone thinking about it and waiting for time to pass until she could find it reasonable to go to bed, and sleep would not be merely a running away.

  She put on her best coat—she had only two, but one was definitely more flattering and less serviceable than the other—and a good hat, and went out into the street to find a hansom and give the driver Callandra Daviot’s address.

  She arrived a few minutes before seven, and was relieved to find that Callandra was at home and not entertaining company, a contingency which she had not even thought of when she set out. She asked if she might see Lady Callandra and was admitted without comment by the maid.

  Callandra came down the stairs within a few minutes, dressed in what she no doubt considered fashionable, but which was actually two years out of date and not the most flattering of colors. Her hair was already beginning to come out of its pins, although she must have left her dressing room no more than a moment ago, but the whole effect was redeemed by the intelligence and vitality in her face—and her evident pleasure in seeing Hester, even at this hour, and unannounced. It did not take her more than one glance to realize that something was wrong
.

  “What is it, my dear?” she said on reaching the bottom stair. “What has happened?”

  There was no purpose in being evasive, least of all with Callandra.

  “I treated a child without the doctor’s permission—he was not there. The child seems to be recovering nicely—but I have been dismissed.” It was out. She searched Callandra’s face.

  “Indeed.” Callandra’s eyebrows rose only slightly. “And the child was ill, I presume?”

  “Feverish and becoming delirious.”

  “With what did you treat it?”

  “Loxa quinine, theriac, Hoffman’s mineral liquor—and a little ale to make it palatable.”

  “Seems very reasonable.” Callandra led the way to the withdrawing room. “But outside your authority, of course.”

  “Yes,” Hester agreed quietly.

  Callandra closed the door behind them. “And you are not sorry,” she added. “I assume you would do the same again?”

  “I—”

  “Do not lie to me, my dear. I am quite sure you would. It is a great pity they do not permit women to study medicine. You would make a fine doctor. You have intelligence, judgment and courage without bravado. But you are a woman, and that is an end of it.” She sat down on a large and extremely comfortable sofa and signaled Hester to do the same. “And what do you intend to do now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I thought not. Well perhaps you should begin by coming with me to the theater. You have had an extremely trying day and something in the realm of fantasy will be a satisfactory contrast. Then we will discuss what you are to do next. Forgive me for such an indelicate question, but have you sufficient funds to settle your accommodation for another week or two?”

  Hester found herself smiling at such mundane practicality, so far from the moral outrage and portent of social disaster she might have expected from anyone else.

  “Yes—yes I have.”

  “I hope that is the truth.” Callandra’s wild eyebrows rose inquiringly. “Good. Then that gives us a little time. If not, you would be welcome to stay with me until you obtain something more suitable.”

  It was better to tell it all now.

  “I exceeded my authority,” Hester confessed. “Pomeroy was extremely angry and will not give me any kind of reference. In fact I would be surprised if he did not inform all his colleagues of my behavior.”

  “I imagine he will,” Callandra agreed. “If he is asked. But so long as the child recovers and survives he will be unlikely to raise the subject if he does not have to.” She regarded Hester critically. “Oh dear, you are not exactly dressed for an evening out, are you? Still, it is too late to do a great deal now; you must come as you are. Perhaps my maid could dress your hair? That at least would help. Go upstairs and tell her I request it.”

  Hester hesitated; it had all been so rapid.

  “Well don’t stand there!” Callandra encouraged. “Have you eaten? We can have some refreshment there, but it will not be a proper meal.”

  “Yes—yes I have. Thank you—”

  “Then go and have your hair dressed—be quick!”

  Hester obeyed because she had no better idea.

  The theater was crowded with people bent on enjoying themselves, women fashionably dressed in crinoline skirts full of flounces and flowers, lace, velvet, fringes and ribbons and all manner of femininity. Hester felt outstandingly plain and not in the least like laughing, and the thought of flirting with some trivial and idiotic young man was enough to make her lose what little of her temper was left. It was only her debt, and her fondness for Callandra, that kept any curb on her tongue at all.

  Since Callandra had a box there was no difficulty about seats, and they were not placed close to anyone else. The play was one of the dozens popular at the moment, concerning the fall from virtue of a young woman, tempted by the weakness of the flesh, seduced by a worthless man, and only in the end, when it was too late, desiring to return to her upright husband.

  “Pompous, opinionated fool!” Hester said under her breath, her tolerance at last stretched beyond bearing. “I wonder if the police ever charged a man with boring a woman to death?”

  “It is not a sin, my dear,” Callandra whispered back. “Women are not supposed to be interested.”

  Hester used a word she had heard in the Crimea among the soldiers, and Callandra pretended not to have heard it, although she had in fact heard it many times, and even knew what it meant.

  When the play was finished the curtain came down to enthusiastic applause. Callandra rose, and Hester, after a brief glance down at the audience, rose also and followed her out into the wide foyer, now rapidly filling with men and women chattering about the play, each other and any trivialities or gossip that came to mind.

  Hester and Callandra stepped among them, and within a few minutes and half a dozen exchanges of polite words, they came face-to-face with Oliver Rathbone and a dark young woman with a demure expression on her extremely pretty face.

  “Good evening, Lady Callandra.” He bowed very slightly and then turned to Hester, smiling. “Miss Latterly. May I present Miss Newhouse?”

  They exchanged formal greetings in the approved fashion.

  “Wasn’t it a delightful play?” Miss Newhouse said politely. “So moving, don’t you think?”

  “Very,” Callandra agreed. “The theme seems to be most popular these days.”

  Hester said nothing. She was aware of Rathbone looking at her with the same inquisitive amusement he had at their first meeting, before the trial. She was not in the mood for small talk, but she was Callandra’s guest and she must endure it with some grace.

  “I could not but feel sorry for the heroine,” Miss Newhouse continued. “In spite of her weaknesses.” She looked down for a moment. “Oh, I know of course that she brought her ruin upon herself. That was the playwright’s skill, was it not, that one deplored her behavior and yet wept for her at the same time?” She turned to Hester. “Do you not think so, Miss Latterly?”

  “I fear I had rather more sympathy with her than was intended,” Hester said with an apologetic smile.

  “Oh?” Miss Newhouse looked confused.

  Hester felt compelled to explain further. She was acutely aware of Rathbone watching her.

  “I thought her husband so extremely tedious I could well understand why she … lost interest.”

  “That hardly excuses her betrayal of her vows.” Miss Newhouse was shocked. “It shows how easily we women can be led astray by a few flattering words,” she said earnestly. “We see a handsome face and a little surface glamour, instead of true worth!”

  Hester spoke before thinking. The heroine had been very pretty, and it seemed the husband had bothered to learn very little else about her. “I do not need anyone to lead me astray! I am perfectly capable of going on my own!”

  Miss Newhouse stared at her, nonplussed.

  Callandra coughed hard into her handkerchief.

  “But not as much fun, going astray alone, is it?” Rathbone said with brilliant eyes and lips barely refraining from a smile. “Hardly worth the journey!”

  Hester swung around and met his gaze. “I may go alone, Mr. Rathbone, but I am perfectly sure I would not find the ground uninhabited when I got there!”

  His smile broadened, showing surprisingly beautiful teeth. He held out his arm in invitation.

  “May I? Just to your carriage,” he said with an expressionless face.

  She was unable to stop laughing, and the fact that Miss Newhouse obviously did not know what was funny only added to her enjoyment.

  * * *

  The following day Callandra sent her footman to the police station with a note requesting that Monk wait upon her at his earliest convenience. She gave no explanation for her desire to see him and she certainly did not offer any information that would be of interest or use.

  Nevertheless in the late morning he presented himself at her door and was duly shown in. He had a deep regard
for her, of which she was aware.

  “Good morning, Mr. Monk,” she said courteously. “Please be seated and make yourself comfortable. May I offer you refreshment of some kind? Perhaps a hot chocolate? The morning is seasonably unpleasant.”

  “Thank you,” he accepted, his face rather evidently showing his puzzlement as to why he had been sent for.

  She rang for the maid, and when she appeared, requested the hot chocolate. Then she turned to Monk with a charming smile.

  “How is your case progressing?” She had no idea which case he was engaged on, but she had no doubt there would be one.

  He hesitated just long enough to decide whether the question was a mere politeness until the chocolate should arrive or whether she really wished to know. He decided the latter.

  “Little bits and pieces of evidence all over the place,” he replied. “Which do not as yet seem to add up to anything.”

  “Is that frequent?”

  A flash of humor crossed his face. “It is not unknown, but these seem unusually erratic. And with a family like Sir Basil Moidore’s, one does not press as one might with less socially eminent people.”

  She had the information she needed.

  “Of course not. It must be very difficult indeed. And the public, by way of the newspapers, and the authorities also, will naturally be pressing very hard for a solution.”

  The chocolate came and she served them both, permitting the maid to leave immediately. The beverage was hot, creamy and delicious, and she saw the satisfaction in Monk’s face as soon as his lips touched it.

  “And you are at a disadvantage that you can never observe them except under the most artificial of circumstances,” she went on, seeing his rueful agreement. “How can you possibly ask them the questions you really wish, when they are so forewarned by your mere presence that all their answers are guarded and designed to protect? You can only hope their lies become so convoluted as to trap some truth.”

  “Are you acquainted with the Moidores?” He was seeking for her interest in the matter.