I shook my head sorrowfully. “I do not know. I have no ideas at all. You must excuse me. I should go and see her immediately.”
And so I did, the visit confirming the very worst of my fears. The woman was indeed weaker, whatever progress her wound had made had stopped and the stench of sickness hung in the dank little room. I could have wept to see the sight. But she was conscious, and had not yet deteriorated too far. Close questioning discovered that she had not eaten now in near two days; the girl Lower had hired to watch over her had abandoned her post when Sarah was taken, refusing to stay in the house of a murderess. Naturally, she did not refund the money.
It seemed to me that part of the trouble was that the woman was hungry; she needed to eat well and regularly to have any chance at all, so the first thing I did was march straight to a cook house and demand some bread and broth for her. This I fed to her myself, spoonful by spoonful, before I examined and redressed the wound. It was not as bad as I feared. Locke had done a decent job in that respect, at least.
But she still should not have been that ill. Hunger and the dismay of seeing her daughter taken no doubt made her despondent, but I was sure—indeed my entire theory depended on it—of a communication between her and the daughterly blood now commingled in her veins. And if being cast into a rat-infested prison could have this effect, then clearly worse was to come.
“I beg you, kind doctor,” she said when I had finished, “how is my Sarah, do you know?”
I shook my head. “I have only just returned from the country, and know less than you do. All I have heard is that she is to go on trial. Have you not had any messages?”
“No. I cannot go there, and she cannot come here. And there is no one who will take a message for me. I hesitate to impose on your goodness…”
My heart sank. I knew what she was going to say, and I dreaded the request.
“…but you know her a little. You know she could not do anything like this. She has never harmed anyone in her entire life, quite the opposite in fact; she is known—even Mr. Boyle knows her—for her willingness and ability to heal. I know you cannot do anything for her but would you go and see her, tell her that I am well and she is not to worry on my behalf?”
I desperately wanted to refuse, to say that I wished to have nothing further to do with the girl. But I could not bring myself to say the harsh words; it would have weakened the poor woman still further and, if my theory was correct, then the more content the girl, the greater the mother’s chances as well. So I agreed to the request. I would visit the jail, assuming I was allowed in, and would convey the message.
I hope I have led a good life, and that the Lord recognizes my efforts to conform to his laws so that I am spared the miseries of eternal torment, for if Hell is half as diabolical as the cells of an English jail on the day before an assize, it is a terrible place indeed. The small forecourt in front of the castle was far more crowded than on the previous occasion I visited it, alive with the bustle of men and women come to succor prisoners, or drawn merely by the possibility of watching new ones arrive. The unfortunate wretches are brought in from far and wide when the judges come to town, that they may stand their turn and hear their fate. The jail, virtually empty last time I was there, was now bursting, the stench of human bodies overwhelming and the noise of the sick, the cold and the desperate deeply affecting. However much many of the creatures deserved to be so lodged, I could not but feel sorry for them, and even had a momentary burst of panic that I might be confused for a prisoner and refused permission to leave again once my task was done.
Men and women are separated, of course, and the poorer sort make do in two large rooms. There is no furniture of any type except straw pallets for them to lie on, and the sounds of the heavy iron chains clanking as the prisoners tossed and turned in a futile attempt to find comfort sang loudly in the background as I picked my way through the mass of bodies. It was bitterly cold, as the room was near the waterline of the old moat, and centuries of damp clung to the walls. The only light came from a few windows, so high up that only a bird could have reached them. It occurred to me that it was just as well the assizes met soon, otherwise an underfed, underclothed girl like Sarah Blundy would die of jail fever long before the hangman had his turn.
It took some time to find her, for she was leaning against the clammy wall, arms around her legs and her head bowed down so that only her long brown hair could be seen. She was singing softly to herself, a mournful sound in that dreadful place, the plaintive lament of a caged bird, singing in memory of its freedom. When I greeted her it was some moments before she lifted her head up. Oddly, I was most saddened and alarmed to see how her normal demeanor had vanished. Instead of the insolent haughtiness, she was quiet and passive, as though as deprived of the air she needed as the dove in Boyle’s pump. She didn’t even reply when I asked her how she did—merely shrugged her shoulders and hugged herself as if to try and keep warm.
“I’m sorry I have brought you nothing,” I said. “Had I known, I would have got some blankets and food.”
“That is kind,” she replied. “As to the food, you need not bother—the university has a charitable fund and Mrs. Wood, my employer, has kindly offered to bring me meals every day. But I would welcome some warm clothes. How is my mother?”
I scratched my head. “That is the main reason why I have come. She asked me to tell you must not worry about her. To which I can only add my own exhortations. Your concern does her no good, and may do her harm.”
She looked at me steadily, seeing straight through my words to the concern on my face. “She is not well, is she?” she said flatly. “Tell me the truth, doctor.”
“No,” I replied frankly, “she is not as good as I had hoped. I am concerned for her.” To my horror, she buried her head in her hands once more and I saw her body shaking, and heard her sobbing in sheer misery.
“Come, now,” I said. “It is not as bad as that. She has had a setback, that is all. She is still alive, she still has myself and Lower and now Mr. Locke as well, all desperate to make her better. You must not concern yourself. It is not at all kind to those who are trying so hard for her.”
Eventually, after more such encouragement, I talked her round and she lifted up her head, eyes red with crying, and wiped her nose on her bare arm.
“I came to reassure you,” I said, “not to make you fret the more. You look to yourself and your trial; that is quite enough to keep you busy. Leave your mother to us. In your current circumstances, there is nothing you can do anyway.”
“And afterward?”
“After what?”
“After I am hanged.”
“There, now, that is jumping ahead a little!” I cried with very much more cheer than I felt. “You do not have the noose around your neck yet.” I did not tell her that her fate might well be much worse than a mere hanging.
“Everyone has already decided,” she said quietly. “The magistrate told me when he asked me to confess. The jurors are bound to find me guilty, and the judge is bound to hang me. Who would believe someone like me when I cannot prove my innocence? And what will become of my mother then? How will she live? Who will look after her? We have no family, no means of support at all.”
“When she recovers,” I said heavily, “she will undoubtedly find some suitable employment.”
“The wife of a fanatic and the mother of a murderer? Who would give her work? And you know as well as I do that she will be unable to work for many weeks.”
I could not say that this was a false problem, as the chances were high that she would be dead within a week. And, God forgive me, I could think of no other comfort to give.