A Murderous Malady Read online

  A MURDEROUS MALADY

  A FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE MYSTERY

  Christine Trent

  For Lori Papadakis

  Who entered my brother’s life and completely transformed him.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I first sat down to begin writing this series, I had no idea how enjoyable it would be to inhabit Florence’s skin. However, I’ve come to feel as though I know her at a deep and profound level.

  Of course, I have the pleasant task of making up Florence’s adventures, while there are others who willingly take on the effort of supporting all the fun I have.

  First, I am grateful to my friend, Petra Utara, who pushes, cajoles, and threatens me as needed to ensure that this procrastinating writer meets her deadlines.

  As always, my family pitches in to review my books to ensure my manuscripts are as “clean” as possible before I turn them in. I would be lost without my husband, Jon; my brother, Tony Papadakis; and my sister-in-law, Marian Wheeler.

  Because of reader Raven Ackerman and her husband, Chris, I have been graciously welcomed into the Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, reenactor community. I love every opportunity I have been given to be involved in talks and presentations on Victorian life. I also love our dinners with the Ackermans at Dobbin House.

  Expert seamstresses Donna Huffman and Dana Dement are responsible for accurately transforming me into Florence based upon historical photographs of the Lady with the Lamp. It gives me great joy to portray Florence at book signings and other events.

  Florence would not be brought to life within these pages without the dedicated efforts of my publisher, Crooked Lane Books. I’m appreciative of senior editor Faith Black Ross’s attention to detail, as well as for the enthusiastic responsiveness of editorial assistant Jenny Chen and marketing associate Sarah Poppe. Melanie Sun’s cover designs have completely surpassed all my expectations. I’m lucky to be part of the Crooked Lane family.

  Dei gratia.

  How very little can be done under the spirit of fear.

  —Florence Nightingale, writing to “Aunt Hannah” Nicholson, May 1846

  PROLOGUE

  August 1854

  Soho, London

  Elizabeth Herbert was a firm believer that, to be respected, one must look and act respectable at all times. She was her most fashionable and respectable now as she settled back against the tufted burgundy leather of the Herbert landau.

  The roofless carriage clattered roughly along the cobblestone streets, which after two centuries had become unconscionably uneven, broken, and—in her opinion—downright dangerous. The weather was bordering on stifling hot, but at least it was overcast, so there wasn’t a merciless sun stewing them in the open air.

  The carriage had made its way into a less desirable part of town on its way to its destination. Hadn’t there been a rumor of cholera cases springing up around here lately?

  Elizabeth heard the coachman shout, “General à Court and Mrs. Herbert coming through!” as he snapped his whip smartly in the air.

  No doubt some young boy was chasing a dog into the road, or vice versa. Hopefully, whoever it was wouldn’t stumble upon the street pavers as he scampered out of the way.

  Elizabeth reflected that her life of wealth and privilege came with great power. It was readily evidenced by the command that was immediately obeyed, if the fact that their carriage hadn’t ceased its forward movement for even an instant was an indicator.

  But she had another firm belief, which was that any power must be accompanied by an equal measure of duty to others. Thank God her husband, Sidney, also believed this, and proved it every day as he toiled away in the Aberdeen ministry, reorganizing inefficiencies as he organized as humane a war as possible in the Crimea.

  Elizabeth—Liz to her family and close friends—brushed away some errant blonde tendrils that had escaped her hat as she smiled wanly at her father sitting in the seat across from her.

  General à Court did not catch his daughter’s glance. He gripped the edge of the carriage, leather on one side and glossy black metal on the other. His calloused, work-hardened hand was incongruous against the luxury of the supple leather and newly painted exterior.

  Her papa was an old war-horse, having joined the Army in 1801 and progressed through the ranks to lieutenant-general just three years ago. Even now he was advising Sidney on the conduct of the war in the Crimea.

  Elizabeth didn’t care to understand the intricacies of troop movements and casualty figures, all of which only served to make her think of the childless mothers and husbandless wives being created almost daily.

  No, she much preferred to contemplate how she could be a help to her husband—and, by extension, her father—in bringing a quick and successful conclusion to the war.

  Such work on her part would hopefully not only serve to limit the numbers of shot, stabbed, diseased, and disfigured British soldiers, but also bring glory to the Herbert name.

  “Oomph,” her father grunted as the carriage wheels managed to find a deep rut between the cobblestones. “Give me a horse’s back any day to one of these bone-crushing torture devices.” À Court huffed out another breath of disapproval.

  This time, Elizabeth’s smile was affectionate. “I’m sure we will arrive at the museum in a few minutes, Papa.” Father and daughter had planned an excursion together to the British Museum, as Sidney was locked away in private meetings all day in which the General had no part.

  “I was thinking we might have luncheon afterward at—” Elizabeth’s proposal was obliterated by the sound of shouting between the coachman, Joss Pagg, and another man. The horses pulled up short and she pitched forward, inelegantly caught by her father, who gently pushed her back into her seat.

  “What the deuce?” he demanded, using a favorite phrase of Lord Nelson, that great admiral who had been England’s salvation from the French nearly forty years ago.

  À Court turned stiffly to look over his shoulder, where he could see what Elizabeth now witnessed. The man had attempted to jump up with the coachman, but from his position on the seat, Pagg kicked at the man with his heavy boot.

  The man, whose clothing did not suggest he was any sort of ruffian or vagrant, howled in outrage as he tumbled into the street, where he was nearly trampled by a taxi passing in the opposite direction.

  As it was, the man quickly bounded to his feet, his pants soiled with straw and clods of horse dung. He shouted mostly gibberish at Elizabeth and her father, pointing wildly as his eyes rolled around. But not everything was gibberish. No, the man shouted something at her that was utterly terrifying in its accusation. Wherever had he come up with such a slur against her?

  Now thoroughly frightened, Elizabeth’s mind hardly registered the chaos happening before her eyes. The carriage halting in the middle of the road … her father rising from his seat and raising a menacing fist at the deranged man, who was now melting into the crowd … the driver cracking his whip overhead to scatter people away … the sound of the horses whinnying in fright …

  She heard a faint buzzing in her ears, then felt an odd sensation of being detached from the events surrounding her, as though she were floating above them as casually as a puffy white cloud over Hyde Park. Everything was simply surreal—what sort of lunatic attacked such a fine carriage in broad daylight?—and she wasn’t able to make sense from any of it.

  The cloud evaporated as if releasing a torrent of rain and moving off, and then Elizabeth heard several loud cracks. At first, she was confused, for it seemed as though Pagg had developed unnatural skill with his whip.

  But then she saw the look of horror on her father’s face. Worse, she heard a strange hiss in her ear. It penetrated the buzzing, startling her out of her shock.

&
nbsp; Elizabeth shook her head, and as a stray silk petal escaped her hatband and gently fluttered to the floor of the carriage, she saw Pagg crumple from the driver box down to the cobblestones with a sickening thud.

  Then she, too, fell, her last thought being that the bit of silk flower was no cushion at all.

  CHAPTER 1

  I still stood in the main hall of the Establishment, unable to make any sense of the letter in my hand. What did Sidney mean, there had been an attempted murder of his wife? Why would anyone wish to harm Liz?

  Well, I wasn’t about to waste time sending another letter back to him, even if there would be at least one more postal pickup for the day.

  “Goose?” I called out, knowing that my faithful companion, Mary Clarke, would be somewhere nearby.

  Sure enough, she materialized next to me in moments. “Yes, Miss Florence?” she said. “What may I do for you?”

  She had once been the beloved wife of my old childhood tutor, Milo Clarke. He had unexpectedly died of a stomach obstruction, leaving behind a grieving widow with no means of support.

  My mother had sent the stout and sturdy Mary to me, ostensibly as a companion, but without question as someone to watch my movements here at the hospital, a place Mother considered no better than a brothel.

  Because of her sometimes silly and frightened manner, I had quickly dubbed Mary “Goose,” which she didn’t seem to mind.

  “I need to go to Herbert House,” I announced.

  She immediately smoothed back one side of her graying hair and said, “I’ll get my notebook.” She turned on her heel to retrieve her writing implements, as she had quickly learned that I always had thoughts, ideas, or notes that needed to be committed to paper.

  “No.” I stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. “I will go alone.”

  Mary frowned. “Alone? The streets are always so much safer when we walk in pairs, aren’t they? Even in the middle of the day.”

  She clasped her hands, and I knew she was resisting the urge to wring them together.

  “I cannot have you there. I think it is too private a family matter.” I held out Sidney’s succinct note for her to read.

  Herbert House

  Belgravia

  Flo, come quickly—Liz was attacked in her carriage—nearly murdered—do not want police involved.

  —S

  Mary handed it back wordlessly.

  I took Sidney’s letter back and in its place handed her the rest of the mail, which included an astonishing letter from Richard, to place in my study. Much as I wanted to scurry to my room and reread Richard’s missive over and over to make sense of why he was reaching out to me now of all times, I had to put him resolutely from my mind. There would be time enough to dwell on him later.

  Mary’s skin had taken on the pallor of a rotten lime. She swallowed several times before asking tentatively, “But why would someone wish to harm a friend of yours?”

  Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that an attack on Liz might have anything to do with me.

  * * *

  I was ushered into the Herberts’ elegant double townhome by a servant. The minutes seemed to tick by endlessly until Sidney finally came to greet me with kisses to both cheeks.

  The secretary at war was a handsome man—equally matched in looks by his pretty wife—and had a fiery drive and ambition that I greatly admired, even if I didn’t always agree with some of his decisions. But what did I know about the conduct of a military conflict?

  He ushered me up a wide staircase to his wife’s suite of rooms two floors up, explaining the situation as we quickly climbed the steps. My one hand was safely tucked into the crook of his elbow for support while my other clutched my drab brown-and-black-checked work dress to keep me from tripping.

  I regretted that I had not thought to change into a more elegant dress before dashing into a taxi.

  “Liz and the General were headed through Soho on their way to the British Museum for a visit to their new Anglo-Saxon war weapons collection. I was none too happy about it, as there are rumors of cholera in that area, but Liz’s father believes himself indestructible, and that, by extension, he can prevent any harm from ever coming to his daughter.”

  “He must have done so in this instance,” I said, taking a glance sideways at Sidney as we reached the top of the walnut staircase.

  Sidney’s expression was inscrutable, except for a small tic at the outer corner of his right eye. There was a small mole there I had never noticed before, not that I made it my occupation to study the facial features of my dear friend’s husband.

  “Yes,” Sidney said noncommittally. “As the open landau got caught up in traffic, a madman appeared and virtually jumped up onto the mounting step.”

  I halted in midstride as we approached Liz’s private rooms. “Are you saying she was attacked inside the Herbert carriage? With the General right there?” My incredulity overshadowed my surprise.

  I could hardly comprehend how anyone would do that, unless perhaps he was out of his mind with gin or opium.

  “Actually, no, and that’s what makes it so damnably frustrating.” Sidney led me the remaining steps to Liz’s rooms and paused with his hand on the polished brass knob. “The man seemed to vanish into the crowd when the General threatened him.”

  I waited, knowing there must be much more to this story.

  “The actual attack came from a pistol somewhere in the crowd,” Sidney told me.

  “Heavens!” I exclaimed. “How do you know it wasn’t from the same man who tried to jump into the carriage?”

  “Both Liz and her father insist it wasn’t. But I haven’t told you the worst part.” Sidney sighed heavily, and now I was terribly fearful that Liz had been bodily injured or disfigured.

  “Enough shots were fired that one of them found my coachman. He’s dead.”

  I instinctively put a hand to the lace collar at my throat. “Sidney, how terrible,” was all I could manage. “Does he have a family? A wife and children?”

  “Fortunately, no. And I confess I am relieved Liz was not the victim. I’ll bury the man out of my own purse, of course. He was excellent with the horses and knew all the quickest routes throughout the city. He won’t be easily replaced. But dear God, if it had been Liz …”

  Sidney shook his head, unable to voice his thoughts on such an outcome. He twisted the knob as he lightly rapped on the darkly stained door.

  “Come,” barked a gruff male voice from inside the room, even as Sidney was opening the door and stepping aside to allow me in.

  Liz and her father reminded me of an old masterpiece painting. Liz sat up in her carved tester bed, encased in freshly laundered and ironed snowy-white sheets. She wore an elegant burgundy dressing gown and lace cap with matching, dangling ribbons over perfectly coiffed hair.

  At least I could thankfully see she had not been physically harmed.

  In a chair at the left side of the bed was the General, leaning forward and fervently clasping his daughter’s hand. It was sweet, yet a bit … dramatic.

  I did have a vague remembrance of having met General Charles à Court before. He had struck me then as a proud military man, and that notion was not dispelled now.

  Liz had told me years ago that he had gone to Parliament in 1820—the year I was born—to represent Heytesbury upon the death of his own father but had resigned the seat after only a few months. I suppose military men used to strict discipline do not fare well in the pell-mell bedlam of politics. I imagine they find war to be much more rational.

  He had later gone to Afghanistan and served to quell an uprising against the East India Company rule in 1842. Later, the General had been given the colonelcy of the 41st Welsh Regiment of Foot in 1848, a post he still held. I wasn’t quite sure what a regiment of foot was, although it sounded like infantry—men walking—to me.

  Liz had referred to him as the General ever since his promotion to lieutenant general, and that was how I thought of him now. She spoke confiden
tly of how he would one day be promoted to full general, and I had no doubt of it either, particularly with his current work at the War Office, assisting his son-in-law in various unofficial capacities.

  He scowled darkly and sat ramrod straight in my presence, although he did not release Liz’s hand.

  “Flo!” Liz brightened visibly. “Sidney promised me that nothing would keep you away.”

  She gently disengaged her hand from her father’s grasp and held both arms out to me in open invitation. I remained on the opposite side of the bed as I bent over to kiss her cheek and readily accepted her embrace.

  “I came the moment I received his note. What happened?” I stepped back, and the moment she dropped her arms, the General picked up her right hand again.

  “Didn’t her husband tell you himself?” the General said accusingly before Liz had a chance to reply. I sensed Sidney bristling behind me.

  “He did, but of course I wanted to hear it from dear Liz herself.” I sat on the edge of the bed, while Sidney moved over to the fireplace mantel along the wall nearest me. A heavily figured brass urn dominated the mantel, which was also littered with other bric-a-brac. He managed to surreptitiously move aside a couple of figurines to allow room for his elbow.

  It was ironic to me that all the Herberts’ public spaces were done in the old formal Georgian style, all pastels and light and exquisite plaster moldings, but up here in their private spaces everything was in the latest fashion of overstuffed heavy furniture, bold wallpaper patterns, and thick draperies in multiple layers across the windows.

  “It’s of no matter,” the General said. “It is the police we need for this, not some skirted nurse.”

  Sidney sighed heavily. “Father,” he began, offering a term of endearment to his father-in-law that was not reflected in his tone, “I told you that—”

  “Yes, yes, we don’t want notoriety brought upon the household.” The General was repeating a notion with which he obviously didn’t hold. “I’ll say it again, then. We need to hire a private investigator.”