Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘Get him out of there!’ he ordered.

Then he grabbed one of the timbers and began to heave.

It was strenuous work and they were soon perspiring but Nicholas drove them on. Thomas Bradd did his share, handling the rough timbers with seasoned hands and helping to toss them aside. Any hope that the prone figure might still be alive soon vanished. The sheer weight of the timber would have crushed him to death. One leg was uncovered, then a second, then part of his chest. Nicholas was horrified to see that his friend’s bright apparel was now soaked with blood and caked with filth.

The last and heaviest timber obscured the face of the victim. All four of them lifted it clear and dropped it on the ground. The sight which confronted them made one of the men turn away in disgust and another vomit. Bradd was transfixed. Nicholas was overcome with anguish. Sylvester Pryde was unrecognisable. The handsome face was smashed out of shape, the long hair and beard were glistening with gore. A huge gash in the forehead indicated that it had taken the full force of the timber as it fell. Nicholas fought to master his grief.

‘Poor devil!’ muttered Bradd. ‘Who is he?’

‘A member of the company.’

‘This is a fearful accident.’

‘It was no accident,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was murdered.’

Rose Marwood lay in bed and drifted in and out of sleep as the doctor examined her. The fever seemed to have taken a hold on her. For the first few days after her visit to Clerkenwell, nothing had happened. All that she felt was the lingering aftertaste of the strange brew prepared for her by Mary Hogg. Irritating minor symptoms then began to appear before developing overnight into a raging fever. Rose’s strength ebbed away. The only prayers that were said in her bedchamber now were the frantic entreaties of her mother, begging for forgiveness and pleading for her daughter’s recovery.

Sybil was overwhelmed by remorse. The wild urge to get rid of an unwanted child was now replaced with true maternal concern. As she looked at the flushed face of her daughter, she was shocked by the thought that she might have been responsible for the girl’s illness. In trying to dispose of a child, the wise woman of Clerkenwell, it seemed, might also have brought about the death of its mother.

‘How is she?’ murmured Sybil.

‘Let me examine her properly and I will tell you.’

‘I have never seen Rose so sick.’

‘Stand back, please,’ said the doctor crisply. ‘You are in my light. It might be better if you waited outside.’

‘Do let me stay!’ she implored. ‘Rose is my daughter.’

‘Then let me attend to her.’

Mouthing apologies, Sybil retreated to the other side of the room and watched with trepidation. The doctor was a small, wiry man in his fifties with a white beard and a wizened face. His instruments stood beside him in a leather case. After feeling his patient’s pulse, he opened her mouth gently so that he could peer into it. Then he placed a cool hand on the fevered brow. Rose’s eyes opened again but they lacked any expression. She dozed off within a minute.

The doctor was thorough. When his examination was over, he turned to question Sybil, sensing that she might in some way be responsible for the girl’s sickness.

‘What have you done to her?’ he challenged.

‘Nothing,’ she murmured.

‘She is grievously sick.’

‘That is why we sent for you, doctor.’

‘When your daughter came to visit me, she was strong and healthy. Rose thought she was ailing but I told her that she was with child. That produces changes in the body. I explained that such changes were quite normal and tried to still her fears.’ He glanced back at the bed. ‘But look at her now. These symptoms have nothing to do with motherhood. What has happened to her?’

‘I do not know, doctor.’

‘Has she eaten rancid food? Drunk foul water?’

‘She is well-cared for,’ bleated Sybil defensively.

‘Then why is she locked away like this?’ he said sternly.

‘You used a key to let us in here and I see that bolt upon the window. It should be wide open to admit fresh air not shut tight like that.’

‘It will be opened,’ she promised. ‘It will, it will.’

The doctor put his head to one side and studied her for a moment. Guilt made her shift her feet and rub her hands nervously together. He clicked his tongue in disapproval.

‘What has been going on here?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, nothing.’

‘Why has the girl declined so?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Let me give you a warning,’ he said, fixing her with a cold stare. ‘Do not try to meddle with nature. Rose is unwed and she was shocked to learn that she was with child. You and your husband must also have been shaken by the tidings. That is nothing new. I see it happen all the time to the parents of young girls who give birth out of wedlock. They are hurt,’ he continued, ‘they feel ashamed and desperate. They blame their daughters and make them suffer bitterly. In some cases, they are even driven to extremities.’

‘Extremities?’ croaked Sybil.

‘I think that you know what I mean.’

‘No, doctor.’

‘Unwanted children are conceived all the time,’ he said with a glance at the bed. ‘London is full of quacks and charlatans who will offer to get rid of those children at a price. They are not only tricksters. Such people can cause great damage.’

‘Can they?’

‘What they do is to slaughter innocent babes in the womb. That is not only a heinous crime, it is a sin against nature and an offence before God.’

‘I know that now,’ she gabbled.

‘Never expose your daughter to such witchcraft,’ he insisted. ‘Or you may put her own life in jeopardy.’

‘Will she die, doctor? Will Rose die?’

‘I hope not.’

‘What must we do? Tell us and it will be done.’

‘The first thing you must do is to love and cherish your daughter. Nurse her tenderly. It is always the best medicine.’

‘I will sit beside her day and night.’

He crossed to open his case. ‘I will leave a potion for her,’ he said, taking out a little flask and handing it to her. ‘Give her two drops of it in a small amount of clean water twice a day and make sure that she swallows it. Use a damp cloth to wipe her brow and keep it cool. And open that window to clear away this smell of sickness.’

‘I will, I will, doctor. What else must I do?’

His instructions were long and specific. Sybil made a careful note of them but avoided his piercing gaze because it made her sense of guilt almost unbearable. She plied him with questions of her own and stored up each answer in her memory. Before he left, the doctor casually slipped a hand under the pillow and extracted a battered Roman Catholic Prayer book. Sybil backed away and shuddered violently.

‘This has no place in a Protestant household,’ he chided. ‘You know the law. We have put aside the old religion. How did this forbidden book come to be in the girl’s bed?’

‘I do not know,’ she lied, snatching it from him. ‘But I will throw it away at once, doctor. I give you my word.’

‘Honour it,’ he said sharply. ‘Or I will have to report this to your parish priest. You will not save your daughter with Romish incantations or with concoctions sold by quacks. Medicine is the only cure.’

‘Yes, yes.’

He looked at Rose. ‘Call me if her condition worsens.’

‘We will, doctor.’

‘And remember that you are a mother.’

The words were a stinging rebuke and Sybil felt the full force of them. When the doctor scurried out of the room, she sat down on a stool and wept contritely. Rose seemed peaceful now, eyes closed and breathing regular. But the fever was clearly still upon her and Sybil suspected that it had originated in a Clerkenwell backstreet.