The Twisted Root Read online

  She went into the waiting room and he came after her. There were already half a dozen patients. He smiled at them, then went across to his consulting room and she followed. When they were inside he answered her.

  "Any suggestion he accepts is going to have to come from someone he regards as an equal," he replied with a slight shrug.

  Kristian Beck was, in every way, intellectually and morally Thorpe’s superior, but it would be pointless for her to say so, and embarrassing. It would be far too personal. It would betray her own feelings, which had never been spoken. There was trust, a deep and passionate understanding of values, of commitment to what was good. She would never have a truer friend in these things, not even Hester. But what was personal, intimate, was a different matter. She knew her own emotions. She loved him more than she had loved anyone else, even her husband when he had been alive. Certainly, she had cared for her husband. It had been a good marriage; youth and nature had lent it fire in the beginning, and mutual interest and kindness had kept it companionable. But for Kristian Beck she felt a hunger of the spirit which was new to her, a fluttering inside, both a fear and a certainty, which was constantly disturbing.

  She had no idea if his feelings for her were more than the deepest friendship, the warmth and trust that came from the knowledge of a person’s character in times of hardship. They had seen each other exhausted in mind and body, drained almost beyond bearing when they had fought the typhus outbreak in the hospital in Limehouse. A part of their inner strength had been laid bare by the horror of it, the endless days and nights that had melted into one another, sorrow over the deaths they had struggled so hard to prevent, the supreme victory when someone had survived. And, of course, there was the danger of infection. They were not immune to it themselves.

  Kristian was waiting for her to make some response, standing in the sun, which made splashes of brightness through the long windows onto the worn, wooden floor. Time was short, as it always seemed to be between them. There were people waiting—frightened, ill people, dependent upon their help. But they were also dependent upon being adequately nursed after surgery. Their survival might hang on such simple things as the circulation of air around the ward, the cleanliness of bandages, the concentration and sobriety of the nurse who watched over them. The depth of the nurse’s knowledge and the fact that someone listened to what she reported might be the difference between recovery or death.

  "I wish he wasn’t such a fool!" Callandra said with sudden anger. "It doesn’t matter a jot who you are, all that matters is if you are right. What is he so afraid of?"

  "Change," he said quietly. "Loss of power, not being able to understand." He did not move as another man might have, looking at the papers on his desk, tidying this or that, checking on instruments set out ready to use. He had a quality of stillness. She thought again with a hollow loneliness how little she knew of him outside hospital walls. She knew roughly where he lived, but not exactly. She knew of his wife, although he had seldom spoken of her. Why not? It would have been so natural. One could not help but think of those one loved.

  A sudden coldness gripped her. Was it because he knew how she felt and did not wish to hurt her? The color must be burning up her face even as she stood there.

  Or was it an unhappiness in him, a pain he did not wish to touch, far less to share? And did she even want to know?

  Would she want him to say aloud that he loved her? It could break forever the ease of friendship they had now. And what would take its place? A love that was forever held in check by the existence of his wife? And would she want him to betray that? She knew without even having to waste time on the thought that such a thing would destroy the man she believed he was.

  Nothing could be sweeter than to hear him say he loved her. And nothing could be more dangerous, more threatening to the sweetness of what they now had.

  Was she being a coward, leaving him alone when he most needed to share, to be understood? Or being discreet when he most needed her silence?

  Or was friendship all he wanted? He had a wife—perhaps all he needed here, in this separate life from the personal, was an ally.

  "There are still medicines missing," she said, changing the subject radically.

  He drew in his breath. "Have you told Thorpe?"

  "No!" It was the last thing she intended to do. "No," she repeated more calmly. "It’s almost certainly one of the nurses. I’d rather find out who myself and put a stop to it before he ever has to know."

  He frowned. "What sort of medicines?"

  "All sorts, but particularly morphine, quinine, laudanum, Dutch liquid and several mercurial preparations."

  He looked down, his face troubled. "It sounds as if she’s selling them. Dutch liquid is one of the best local anesthetics I know. No one could be addicted to all those or need them for herself." He moved towards the door. "I’ve got to start seeing patients. I’ll never get through them all. Have you any idea who it is?"

  "No," she said unhappily. It was the truth. She had thought about it hard, but she barely knew the names of all the women who fetched and carried and went about the drudgery of keeping the hospital clean and warm, the linen washed and ironed and the bandages rolled, let alone their personal lives or their characters. All her attention had been on trying to improve their conditions collectively.

  "Have you asked Hester?" he said.

  Her hand was on the doorknob.

  "I don’t think she knows either," she replied.

  His face relaxed very slightly in a smile—humor, not happiness. "She’s rather a good detective, though," he pointed out.

  Callandra did not need to tell Hester that medicines were missing, she was already unhappily aware of it. However, it was not at the forefront of her mind as she left Callandra and Kristian and went to the patients’ waiting room. She resented bitterly Fermin Thorpe’s admonition to her to go and offer comfort to the troubled and moral guidance to the nurses, although both were tasks she fully believed in and intended to carry out. It was their limitations she objected to, not their nature.

  She passed one of the nurses, a comfortable woman of almost fifty, pleasant-faced, gray-brown hair always falling out of its pins, a little like Callandra’s. Had their backgrounds not been so different the resemblance might have been more apparent. This woman could barely read or write, not much more than her name and a few familiar words of her trade, but she was intelligent and quick to learn a new task, and Hester had frequently seen her actually tending to patients when she knew there were no doctors anywhere near. She seemed to have an aptitude for it, an instinctive understanding of how to ease distress, lower a fever, or whether someone should eat or not. Her name was Cleo Anderson.

  She lowered her eyes now as Hester passed her, as if she wished to avoid attracting attention. Hester was sorry. She would have liked to encourage her, even with a glance.

  There were some patients in the waiting room already, five women and two men. All but one of them were elderly, their eyes watchful in unfamiliar surroundings, afraid of what would happen to them, of what they could be told was wrong, of the pain of treatment, and of the cost. Their clothes were worn thin. Here and there a clean shirt showed under a faded coat.

  Some of their treatment was free, but they still had to pay for food while they were in hospital, and then, after they left, for medicine as well if it was necessary.

  She chose the most wretched looking of the patients and went over to him.

  He peered up at her, his eyes full of fear. Her bearing suggested authority to him, and he thought he was about to be chastised, although he had no idea what for.

  "What’s your name?" she enquired with a smile.

  He gulped. " ’Arry Jackson, ma’am."

  "Is this your first time here, Mr. Jackson?" She spoke quietly, so only those closest to him would overhear.

  "Yes, ma’am," he mumbled, looking away. "I wouldn’t ’a come, but our Lil said as I ’ad ter. Always fussin’, she is. She’s a real good girl.
Said as they’d find the money some’ow." He lifted his head, defiantly now. "An’ she will, ma’am. Yer won’t be done short, wotever!"

  "I’m sure," she agreed softly. "But it wasn’t money I was concerned about."

  A spasm of pain shot through him, and for a moment he gasped for breath. She did not need Mr. Thorpe’s medical training to see the ravages of disease in his gaunt body. He almost certainly had consumption, and probably pleurisy as well, considering the way he held his hand over his chest. He looked considerably over sixty, but he might not actually have been more than fifty. There would be little the physician could do for him. He needed rest, food, clean air and someone to care for him. Morphine would help the pain, and sherry in water was an excellent restorative. They were probably all impossibly expensive for him. His clothes—and even more, his manner—spoke of extreme poverty.

  He looked at her with disbelief.

  She made up her mind. "I’ll speak to Dr. Warner and see if you shouldn’t stay here a few days—" She stopped at the alarm in his face. "Rest is what you need."

  "I got a bed!" he protested.

  "Of course. But you need quiet, and someone who has time to look after you."

  His eyes widened. "Not one o’ them nurses!" The thought obviously filled him with dread.

  She struggled for an argument to persuade him, but all that came to her lips were lies, and she knew it. Many of the nurses were kindly enough, but they were ignorant and often hard-pressed by poverty and unhappiness themselves.

  "I’ll be here," she said instead. She had placed herself in a position where she had to say something.

  "Wot are yer, then?" His curiosity got the better of his awe.

  "I’m a nurse," she answered rashly, and with a touch of pride. "I was out in the Crimea."

  He looked at her with amazement. The word was still magic.

  "Was yer?" His eyes filled with hope, and she felt guilty for how simply she’d done it, and with so little consideration of what she could fulfill. If only they could persuade Thorpe to see how much it mattered that all nurses should inspire this trust, not in miracles but in competence, gentleness and sobriety.

  But how could they, when they were given no training and it was so blatantly apparent that the doctors had little but contempt for them? The anger inside her was rock hard; unconsciously her body clenched.

  Harry Jackson was still staring at her. She must talk to him, reassure him. No one could heal his illness. Like half of the people in this room, he was long past that kind of help, but she could comfort his fear, and for a time at least alleviate his pain.

  The physician came to the door and called the first patient. He looked frustrated and tired in a clean frock coat and trousers that were a little wrinkled at the knees. He also knew he could do little that was of real help.

  Hester moved to another patient and talked with him, listening to his tales of family, home, the difficulties of trying to make ends meet, let alone to pay for medicine, when you were too sick to work.

  A nurse walked through the room carrying an empty pail, its metal handle clinking against the rings that held it. The woman was stout, dark, about forty. She did not look to either side of her as she passed the waiting people. She hiccuped as she went out of the far door. She was in a world of her own, exhausted by hard physical labor, lifting, bending, carrying, scrubbing. Mealtimes and, more important, drink times would be the highlights of her day. Then she could share the odd joke with the other women, and the brief euphoria of alcohol which shut out reality.

  It was all a long way from the dream of a sweet-faced woman with a lamp in her hand who would murmur words of hope and miraculously save the dying.

  And that too was a long way from the passionate, tireless, short-tempered, vulnerable woman who sat in her house passing out orders, pleas and advice—almost all of it good—and being stoically ignored by men like Fermin Thorpe.

  It was six o’clock before the last patient had been seen. Hester had managed to persuade the physician to admit Harry Jackson for a few days, and she savored that small victory. She was consequently smiling as she tidied the waiting room.

  The door opened, and she was pleased to see Callandra, who now looked even more disheveled than usual. Her skirt was crumpled, her blouse open at the neck in the heat, and she had obviously been working, because her sleeves were rolled up and stained with splashes of water and blood. Her hair was coming out of its pins in all directions. It needed taking down, brushing, and doing again.

  Absentmindedly, Callandra pulled out a pin, caught up a bunch of hair and replaced it all, making the whole effect worse.

  She closed the door and glanced around to make sure the room was empty and all other doors were closed also.

  "He’s gone," Hester assured her.

  Callandra rubbed the back of her hand across her brow.

  "There’s more medicine gone today," she said wearily. "I checked it this morning, and again now. It’s not a lot, but I’m quite sure."

  Hester should not have been surprised, but she felt a cold grip inside her close tighter. It was systematic. Someone was taking medicines every day or two and had been doing so for a long time, perhaps months, possibly even years. A certain amount of error or theft was expected, but not of this order.

  "Does Mr. Thorpe know yet?" she asked quietly.

  "Not about this," Callandra replied. "It’s getting worse."

  For a wild moment Hester actually entertained the idea that the thefts could be used to pressure Fermin Thorpe into seeing the necessity for training and paying better nurses. Then she realized that disclosure of the problem would only end in a full-scale investigation, possibly involving the police, and all the present staff, innocent and guilty alike, would suffer, possibly even be dismissed. In all probability not one would be able to prove her honesty, still less her sobriety. The whole hospital would grind to a standstill, and no good would be achieved at all.

  "He’s going to find out soon," Callandra said, interrupting Hester’s thoughts. "They’ll have to be replaced."

  "Have we any idea who it is?" Hester struggled for something tangible to pursue. "We’ve got twenty-eight women here doing one thing or another. All of them are hard up, very few of them can read or write more than a few words, some not that much. Half of them live in the hospital, the other half come and go at all hours."

  "But the apothecary’s rooms are locked," Hester pointed out. "Are they stealing the keys? Or do you suppose they can pick the lock?"

  "Pick the lock," Callandra said without hesitation. "Or sneak in and out when he’s got his back turned. He’s as careful as he can be."

  "But he knows there are losses?"

  "Oh, yes. He doesn’t like Thorpe any more than we do. Well, not much. He’ll not report it till he has to. He knows what chaos it will be. But he can’t carry on hiding it much longer."

  There was a knock on the door. Callandra opened it, and Cleo stood there, a look of polite enquiry on her face. "Yer ’ungry, love?" she said cheerfully. "There’s a nice bit o’ cold beef an’ pickle goin’ if yer fancy it. An’ fresh bread. A glass o’ porter?"

  Hester had not realized it, but at mention of the food she was aware of how long it had been since she last ate, or sat down comfortably, without the need to find words to comfort a frightened, inarticulate old man or woman, powerless as she was to give any real help.

  "Yes," she accepted quickly. "Please."

  Cleo jerked her hand to the right. "Along there, love, same as usual." She withdrew, and they heard her feet clattering away on the hard floor.

  They went together up to the staff room and sat at one of the plain wood tables. All around them other women were eating with relish, and the porter glasses were lifted even more often than the forks. There was a little cheerful conversation in between mouthfuls, or during. They overheard many snatches.

  "... dead ’e were, in a week, poor devil. But wot can yer ’spect, eh? ’Ad no choice but ter cut ’im open. Went bad, it
did. Seen it comin’."

  "Yeah. Well, ’appens, don’ it? ’Ere, ’ave another glass o’ porter."

  "Fanks. I’m that tired I need summink ter keep me eyes open. I gorn an’ popped that ’at, like yer told me. Got one and tenpence fer it. Bastard. I’d ’a thought ’e’d ’a given me two bob. Still, it’ll do the rent, like."

  "Your Edie still alive, is she?"

  "Poorol’ sod, yeah. Coughin’ ’er ’eartup, she is. Forty-six, lookin’ like ninety."

  "Yer gonner get ’er up ’ere, then, ter see the doc?"

  "Not likely! ’Oo’s gonner pay fer it? I can’t, an’ Lizzie in’t got nuffink. Fred’s mean as muck. Makin’ shillin’s, ’e is, at the fish market most days, but drinks more’n ’alf of it."

  "Tell me! My Bert’s the same. Still, knocked seven bells outta Joe Pake t’other day, and got ’isself locked up fer a while. Good riddance, I say. Yer got any more o’ that pickle? I’m that ’ungry. Ta."

  Hester had heard a hundred conversations like it, the small details of life for the women who were entrusted with the care of frightened and ignorant people after the surgeon’s knife had done its best to remove the cause of their pain and the long road to recovery lay ahead of them.

  "Perhaps if I got figures together?" Hester said softly, as much to herself as to Callandra. "I could prove to Thorpe the practical results of having women with some degree of training!" She kept her voice low, not to be overheard. "Women with an intelligence and an aptitude for it, like Cleo Anderson. I know it would cost more, as he would be the first to point out, but it would be richly rewarded. Money’s only the excuse, I’m sure of that." She was reaching for reasons, arguments, the weakness in his armor. "If he thought he would get the credit... if his hospital were to have greater success than any other..."

  Callandra looked up from her bread and pickle. "I’ve tried that." A heavy bunch of hair fell out of its pins, and she poked it back, leaving the ends sticking out. "I thought I’d catch his vanity. Nothing he’d like better than to outdo Dr. Gilman at Guy’s Hospital. But he hasn’t the courage to try anything he isn’t sure of. If he spent money, and there were no results, soon enough ..." She left the rest unsaid. They had been around and around these arguments, or ones like them, so many times. It was all a matter of convincing Thorpe of something he did not want to know.