Authors: Janette Jenkins
‘You were not his usual doctor. A man called Murray was his doctor.’
‘It was delicate. Personal.’
The sergeant leant forwards. ‘Could you be more precise?’
‘Sir,’ said the doctor, opening out his hands, ‘as I am sure you are aware, a physician takes a very solemn oath of confidentiality.’
Nodding, the sergeant said he knew all about the Hippocratic Oath. As part of his enquiries he would need to see the doctor’s medical certificates. It would be necessary to make a formal record of them. ‘Procedure,’ he said, shaking his head and pulling a put-upon face. ‘Paperwork.’
Jane’s throat tightened. She started coughing into her hand.
‘Miss Stretch’ – the sergeant’s voice was kindly – ‘do go and pour yourself a glass of water.’
And so Jane was released for a couple of minutes. The back door was standing ajar, and for a second or two she thought about running away, but she stayed, drinking the water slowly, and when she returned, the doctor was explaining how his certificates had been misplaced during a household removal.
‘And from what establishment did you qualify?’
‘Sir,’ said the doctor, ‘my training was born from an unusual kind of schooling. One that is popular I believe in the United States of America.’
‘Being …?’
‘Being mostly conducted via a correspondence course.’
The constable stifled a laugh, though the sergeant gave a rather hearty chuckle. ‘Correspondence course? And how, might I ask, did you practise? Did they send body parts through the post?’
Mrs Swift winced. The doctor shook his head. ‘Of course not, sir, we were properly schooled in all aspects of medicine, and when it came to hands-on experience, we convened inside a hospital.’
‘Which hospital? Where?’
Licking his lips, the doctor moved towards the mantelshelf, where he appeared to be studying the workings of the clock hands. ‘It was a very small hospital. On the outskirts of Ipswich.’
‘Really?’ said the sergeant. ‘I have an aunt in Ipswich, not far from the assizes. We visit Ipswich regular. Perhaps I might know it?’
‘The name was St John’s.’
‘No,’ the sergeant shook his head. ‘It is not a name I am familiar with. Now, I would like you to have copies made of your certificates. I would like you to present them to me at Bow Street. I’ll give you three weeks,’ he said. ‘I think three weeks is adequate, don’t you?’
‘It’s very generous, sir. I’ll see to it right away.’
‘Excellent. Now, about Mr Treble. What was his problem? Now the man is dead, I see no reason for your silence.’
‘It wasn’t exactly his problem, sir.’
‘Go on.’
And so Dr Swift, without the slightest hesitation, explained that Mr Treble’s lady friend, who had been expecting a baby, had a miscarriage. ‘A “still”, sir. It happens: it’s much more common than you might imagine, though a tragedy all the same.’
‘You saw the lady?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I did, sir.’
‘Could you tell me her name?’
‘She called herself Miss Brown.’
‘And what caused this early birth, this “still”, could you say?’
‘Possibly overexertion.’
‘And Miss Stretch,’ the sergeant turned, ‘were you in attendance that day?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what about you?’
‘Me, sir?’
‘Have you had any training?’
‘Oh, she is trained well enough, but she is not a
nurse
,’ the doctor hastily explained, ‘she’s nothing of the sort. Jane is merely my maid. My helper.’
‘Very charitable of you, sir, employing an unfortunate, I commend you.’
Jane reddened. She could feel the constable’s eyes on her. ‘Thank you,’ said the doctor.
‘Was a birth certificate issued? A death certificate?’
‘The loss was nothing more than a mass of bloody tissue.’
‘I see. Do you have the poor woman’s address? The name of her usual doctor? I think she might be important to the case.’
‘Case?’ Mrs Swift blurted. ‘Were the circumstances of his death … unnatural?’
The sergeant smiled widely. ‘I am not at liberty to divulge such information, ma’am.’
‘Of course you aren’t.’ The doctor glared at his wife, before going on to say he attended the woman in his own consulting room, and as Mr Treble was such a well-known theatrical, he did not see the harm in keeping things discreet.
‘Quite. And did you meet Mr Treble?’ the sergeant asked Mrs Swift.
‘Oh no, sir, I didn’t.’
The sergeant looked surprised. ‘You didn’t? My goodness! Well, I have to say if my wife knew I had him in the house, whatever the circumstances, she would have badgered me for a glimpse of him. She would have fussed and offered him tea.’
‘Perhaps I was out,’ said Mrs Swift.
‘Perhaps you were,’ said the sergeant. ‘Now, I suppose you might be asking yourselves why I am here.’
‘I was thinking something of the sort,’ said the doctor.
‘It was the apothecary who pointed me in the right direction. You see, when Mr Treble was found, something else was found with him.’
‘It was?’ The doctor started pulling at his necktie.
‘A phial, showing the remains of a pale brown liquid. The label showed the apothecary from where it was procured, and a number was linked to your record. The apothecary, a very charming man from the Continent, gave us your address. He was very helpful. He told us that the mixture was a purgative, and that Mr Treble could not have died from it, even if he had taken triple the amount.’
‘Of course not,’ said the doctor.
Mrs Swift let her shoulders drop. She seemed to be melting into the chair.
‘But we are very puzzled all the same. Why did Mr Treble have this phial belonging to you? A purgative would not have helped his lady friend. Were you treating him for something? Did Mr Treble have an ailment of his own?’
‘No, sir,’ said the doctor. ‘Though he might have stolen the phial.’
‘And why would he do that?’
‘Opium.’
Mrs Swift giggled like a nervous four-year-old. The doctor shot her a look.
‘Opium?’ said the sergeant. ‘Really?’
‘That’s right, sir. I often work with theatricals, and it seems that some are addicted to the drug. Mr Treble could have taken it while I attended to his friend. The
poor
woman was in such a state of distress, I noticed little else.’
‘Yes, I see.’ The sergeant gave a nod to the constable, who was scribbling for all he was worth. ‘That will be all for today. You have been most co-operative, thank you. Just one more thing. When you visit me at Bow Street, could you bring your appointment book as well as your certificates? I would very much like to see it.’
‘Of course, sir. Yes.’
When Jane took the officers to the door, the church bells were ringing and dead leaves were flying like small dirty hands. As soon as she stepped inside she was sent to the news-stand, buying four different papers from the boy. ‘What do you want with four?’ he said. ‘Are you papering your hovel?’
Drained, the Swifts sat around the dining table in a sea of paper and ink. T
REBLE
D
EAD
! W
EST
E
ND
D
ANDY
D
IES
. F
OUL
P
LAY
? C
AMDEN
D
EATH FOR
C
OCKNEY
B
OY
T
REBLE
. They pieced together the stories.
Mr Treble’s landlady (Matilda Ann Sutch, 50) had thought it strange when Mr Treble had not appeared for supper. He had particularly requested cold roast beef. The landlady told police she was quite aggrieved when he did not appear. She had bought the meat especially and did not want it wasted. She knocked on his door to rouse him. She knew he had returned from his matinée because they had met in the hallway, where he appeared to be healthy, looking cheerful, and quite his usual self.
Eventually, the landlady brought her skeleton key and let herself inside. She could see Mr Treble lying fully clothed on the bed. At first she thought he was
sleeping
. It was only when she saw the very pale pallor of his skin and the queer way his mouth was hanging that she began to panic. She gave him a very good shaking. Shouted his name in his ear. Then she ran to fetch the doctor, who announced that Treble was dead.
The police were called immediately. The death was sudden. The man was well known. He attracted lots of attention. The police searched his room thoroughly, and various items of interest were found, which would now be used in their full investigation.
There were pages of tributes from the mourning theatre world. There were reports of a small crowd already gathered, a stunned and dismal throng, outside the lodging house where Mr Treble had perished. A girl from Kentish Town had left a token of calla lilies propped against the wall, along with her own, sodden lace handkerchief.
‘Gaol!’ said Mrs Swift. ‘We are all going to gaol!’
‘Margaret, we are not going to gaol,’ the doctor said, looking somewhat feverish. ‘Jane, go and fetch the whisky bottle and two glasses. We are in shock. We need to calm our nerves.’
The doctor paced the room. ‘A plan,’ he was saying. ‘A plan.’
‘Please remove these headlines, they are turning my stomach,’ said Mrs Swift, who started weeping as Jane gathered the papers, the ink leaving stains on her hands.
‘Margaret,’ said the doctor. ‘For years you have been bemoaning the loss of your beloved Brighton. Perhaps now is the time to return to it.’
For a moment, Mrs Swift looked positively ecstatic,
but
then her face fell. ‘How can we do that? They would only track us down.’
‘Track us down?’ The doctor threw another slosh of whisky into his empty glass. ‘Now why would they do that? We have done nothing wrong.’
‘But you know that isn’t true.’
‘In this case they are looking for a murderer. We are not killers. We have been nowhere near Camden Town.’
‘But, sir,’ said Jane feeling panicked, ‘what about the certificates and your appointment book?’
‘Well yes I …’
‘Can you get the certificates, sir?’ she asked.
‘Where from? The counterfeit certificate shop?’ He was quiet for a moment. He looked into his glass and drained it. ‘If they do start digging we are done for. We have to leave. We should go very quickly, taking only a few belongings. We will leave a note for Edie and Alice.’
‘A note? Saying what, sir?’
‘I don’t know. We were called away? That a very sick relative in the Highlands of Scotland requires our immediate assistance?’
‘Scotland?’ bawled Mrs Swift.
The doctor rolled his eyes. ‘Have you no sense at all, woman? Can’t you see? We are going to Brighton. If the police want to find us they will start looking in Scotland. Northern Scotland. It’s the furthest place from Brighton I could think of.’
‘You could have said America,’ said Mrs Swift. ‘Or even Australia.’
‘We should keep it realistic!’
‘Will I be staying here, sir?’ Jane tentatively asked.
‘No. We will need you. You will have to travel with us.’ And for one fleeting moment, Jane felt thrilled at the thought of the coast. She would see the great Royal Pavilion. The sea. All the fancy amusements of the seaside.
‘Do we have money?’ asked Mrs Swift. ‘Or has Irene Silverwood fleeced us?’
‘Before she left for Bristol she did not let us down.’
Feeling uncomfortable, Jane went into the kitchen to stack last night’s dirty plates. They might be leaving, but someone had to do it. She thought about London. Perhaps they would never return. She would never see Agnes. Her parents. She would not see Ned getting better.
In her attic room, she packed Miss Bell’s Christmas card and all the flimsy things she had collected from the sky and wrapped them in her clothes. For a moment, she looked at the paperweight. She liked the feel of it in her hands, the fine coral shards and the bubbles.
She put everything she owned inside her mother’s pigskin bag. On her way downstairs, she glanced into the room she had once shared with her sister. She saw a bent hairpin on the floor and pressed it to her lips. It must have come from Agnes.
In her own room, Mrs Swift was deciding what to take with her. It seemed a holiday mood had replaced all the weeping, as she held up pairs of slippers, or a necklace, and from the doorway Jane could see she was already picturing herself strolling down the promenade, breathing gusts of briny air, eating poached salmon, the bones carefully removed by Clarinda – who might have
aged
somewhat – and all far away from London’s filth, stand-offishness and inconvenienced showgirls.
At two o’clock, the doctor consulted a railway timetable and went to buy the tickets, saying they would take the very last train of the day, arriving under the cloak of darkness. They would find a cheap hotel, which Brighton had plenty of if you knew where to find them.
‘I will not stay at Mrs Cunningham’s,’ said Mrs Swift. ‘Anywhere but there. She runs a dirty establishment. She’s famous for it.’
Edie and Alice’s note sat on the kitchen table. It was propped against the butter dish.
We have been called to Scotland (Highlands) in a hurry. Poor Aunt Caroline is ill and has no one else to care for her. We have taken Jane. Please lock up behind you. Post the key through the letterbox. Dr F. J. Swift
.
Their belongings were packed and standing in the hall. Mrs Swift, now wearing a tightly fitting coat, moved stiffly from room to room, touching things she did not want to leave behind. After some consideration she wrapped the china shepherdess inside a petticoat, hoping it would get to Brighton intact.
At seven-thirty, the doctor moved the bags into the street. He had paid for a boy to collect them. As the boy pushed the barrow in the direction of the station, Mrs Swift stood quivering on the doorstep.
‘I cannot do it,’ she breathed. ‘I cannot step from this house.’
‘But, ma’am,’ said Jane. ‘You will have to.’
Mrs Swift tried. She opened the front door wider. She managed a few steps onto the path, but then she
panicked
and her legs would not move. Holding onto the railings for support, she used them as props to drag her trembling body back inside the house. ‘My hands,’ she said, ‘look at my hands, I can’t stop them shaking.’