No Cure for Love Read online

  Danny placed a heavy hand on Petersen’s narrow shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye. He was so close he could smell Petersen’s fear.

  Petersen shot an anxious glance at his newly purchased goods. ‘Na, those are old—’

  Danny put one arm around the shopkeeper like a old friend and walked him around to the middle of the shop. The curtain to the back of the shop moved again and Danny saw the face of Petersen’s wife through the crack.

  He continued toward the bowed window, casually knocking over boxes of ship’s biscuits as he crossed the floor. With his free hand Danny tapped the dimpled window pane. The ping of his garnet signet ring on the glass echoed around the small space.

  ‘Do you know why you pay me safety money?’ he asked. Petersen’s mouth started to move but no sound came out. ‘Let me remind you. See this?’ He tapped the glass a little harder.

  A fine glaze of sweat had appeared on Petersen’s forehead.

  ‘If this lot gets stoved in,’ Danny said, and punched the glass. There was a snap, and a crack snaked its way across the rectangular pane.

  ‘Or if this’ - he let Petersen go and lifted the lamp illuminating the shop’s interior from its ceiling peg - ‘caught onto the sawdust and oil you keep here, you wouldn’t have to put food in their mouths because they’ll all be in the workhouse.’

  He tossed the burning lamp upwards and Petersen jumped forward. He let out a cry as he caught the hot metal bowl of the lamp just before it crashed onto a barrel of turpentine.

  Danny rubbed his hands against each other and set his lapels straight. ‘Get me my money by tomorrow or you’d better get you and your scurvy brats back to Swedeland,’ he told Petersen as he set the lamp back where it belonged.

  There was a whoosh as the curtains to the living quarters were thrown back. A small woman, her almost white blonde hair scraped back from her face, and her figure swathed in a long shawl, bustled into the shop. She thrust a small leather pouch into Danny’s face.

  ‘There you are, Mr Donovan, now let my Peter up. Please.’

  Danny studied the drawn face of Hilda Petersen. She was tall for a woman and he guessed she must have had a pretty face at some point. Just for a split second her pale green eyes caught his attention. They took him back to a time he could barely remember, to a mother whose image he had almost forgotten. He hesitated.

  ‘It’s all dere,’ she said in a strong Scandinavian accent, thrusting the pouch at him again. The memory evaporated. He let Petersen go and took the proffered money in the same movement.

  ‘Doesn’t it take a woman to see the resolving of a situation?’ Danny asked, his face taking on its usual jovial expression. ‘What would we do without the fair sex to guide us?’

  ‘The blessed Almighty knew what he was about when he created Eve,’ Mike agreed as he opened the door for his boss.

  ‘Good day, to you, Petersen, Mrs Petersen,’ Danny said, sliding the pouch into his pocket. ‘A pleasure doing business with you.’ He jabbed a finger at Petersen and looked at him hard. ‘When my boy visits next week, be sure to listen to the little woman.’

  The bell above the door jingled as Danny and Mike strode back into the street.

  Two boys ran past them chasing each other. As they did the smaller of the two, a lad of about nine or ten, tripped up on the uneven pavement and collided with Danny’s leg.

  Quick as lightning Danny’s hand shot out and grabbed the unfortunate boy, hauling him up into the air by the scruff of his neck.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, you little bastard,’ Danny shouted at the boy, who now dangled in the air.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Donovan, sir,’ the boy choked out. Danny shook him vigorously and set him on his feet, but held him still.

  ‘Sorry, are you?’ he said scowling at the lad hanging from his grip.

  ‘Please, Mister, Charlie didn’t mean no ’arm,’ the captured boy’s playmate pleaded.

  Danny’s scowl deepened. ‘Were you after the contents of me pocket?’

  Charlie and his friend denied the accusation in unison.

  ‘No, mister. I ain’t no thief, honest. Tell him, Sammy,’ the boy assured him as he twisted back and forth.

  Sammy added his voice to his friend’s plea. ‘We’re not pickpockets.’

  Danny stood unmoved, Mike beside him. ‘What’s to be done with them, Mike?’ he asked, still eyeing the boys menacingly.

  ‘Give them to the magistrate,’ Mike suggested.

  Charlie and Sammy looked terrified. A trip to the magistrate was a guaranteed trip to Newgate or the Fleet prison and from there transportation to Botany Bay.

  ‘No, I’ve a punishment more fitting for these whippersnappers. ’

  Danny reached into his inside pocket. Both boys went white with fear. They watched his hand wide-eyed as he drew it out again and twisted a silver threepenny piece between his finger and thumb. Two sets of eyes focused on the shining object. Danny tossed it in the air. It arched upwards and then fell on the floor. He let go of his captive who fell on the coin.

  ‘Off with you both, and get yourself a pie. You’ve got legs like starved pigeons, both of you,’ Danny said, as the boys dusted themselves down.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Donovan, sir,’ Charlie said beaming at Danny and Mike.

  Danny tipped his head to one side and studied the boy who had collided with him. ‘You’re ’Arry Tugman’s boy, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Donovan,’ Charlie replied.

  ‘Give your pa me best and tell him I’ll see him in the Prospect. Now be off with you,’ Danny told them. ‘And if you’ve got nothing better to do, follow the wagons along Whitechapel High Street. They often have the odd apple or pear on the back of the cart that the driver won’t miss. You might even lift something to sell up town.’

  The boys touched their foreheads and shot off down the street.

  ‘That’s what I like to see,’ Danny said as they disappeared from sight. ‘Respect.’

  Black Mike’s face took on a mellow expression as his eyes followed Charlie and Sammy disappearing into the crowd.

  ‘Put me in mind of you and me at that age, Danno,’ he said.

  Danny slapped him sharply on the shoulder. ‘We weren’t as fortunate as those two. At their age we were grubbing our food in the dirt around St Katharine with all the other poor Paddy bastards fresh off the boat.’

  Images came to him of he and Mike as boys, huddled in a cold loft gnawing at stale bread, chilled to the bone and wet through. If they didn’t swipe something to sell they starved, and they risked the rope every time they picked a pocket or lifted some goods from a barrow. Danny pushed the memories aside. He wasn’t partial to getting maudlin over the past. It made a man soft, and if a man wanted to survive in this world he couldn’t afford to be that.

  He thrust his hand inside his breast pocket, drew out the leather-bound ledger again and flicked through the pages. He had money to collect.

  ‘Mahaffy, Mead, Meadows, Malley, Mungo,’ Danny said, running his finger down the page. ‘There we are, Mike, Mungo. The bastard owes me three shillings for parish safety.’ He grinned at Black Mike. ‘That is, Mungo had better give me three shillings if he wants to live safely in the parish.’

  He noticed that Mike was looking over his shoulder and down the street. Turning slowly, a grin spread across his face.

  ‘Well, Mike, this is turning into a rare morning.’

  Ellen turned into Cable Street and heartily wished that she hadn’t. On the corner of Mercer Row was Danny Donovan, flanked by Black Mike.

  Before she had time to retrace her steps, Danny spotted her.

  Holding her head high and adjusting the bundle of washing on her left hip, Ellen walked towards him across the muddy street.

  Danny stepped out before her, blocking her way. ‘Look who it is, Mike, our very own linnet, Ellie.’

  She sidestepped and Danny did the same. His face took on an ingenuous expression.

  ‘You seem to be in a mighty h
urry this morning, me darling. Can you not see it as a kindness to me, and to Mike here, to spare us a couple of moments to light up our day?’ He took hold of her arm and ran his hand up and down it.

  Ellen suppressed a shudder. ‘Even if you’ve time to idle away, I have things to do,’ she said, pulling her arm away and readjusting the bundle on her hip.

  ‘Now, you didn’t seem too busy to spend the time of day with young Doctor Munroe on Friday, did you?’

  Ellen’s heart thumped in her chest, but she managed to look puzzled.

  She knew, of course, that hardly an apple fell from a barrow without Danny having knowledge of it, but even so ... Who would have thought it worthwhile to tell him of her stroll with Doctor Munroe? Unless it wasn’t her they were watching but Doctor Munroe.

  ‘Doctor who?’ She pulled her brows together then let them relax. ‘Oh, Doctor Munroe. The doctor with Mr Chafford in the Angel last week.’

  Danny’s eyes narrowed. ‘The poor man would be heartbroken if he knew that he had slipped your mind so easily.’ His gaze ran boldly over her, lingering on her breasts. He took hold of her arm again, his fingers pressing painfully into her flesh.

  Ellen met his eye. ‘We happened to meet by chance and he accompanied me along the road.’

  Danny leant towards her and a waft of stale sweat rose up. ‘Did the fine doctor accompanying you along the road sweet-talk you, eh, Ellen? Told you that he would look after you, did he?’

  With an almighty wrench Ellen freed herself from Danny’s grip and put some distance between them. ‘Not that it is of any business of yours, but Doctor Munroe was telling me of his plans to stay in the area,’ Ellen said.

  Danny glanced down at the bundle of washing hooked over her arm.

  ‘What do you want to wash and scrub for, woman, when you could earn a deal more money swivelling on my lap?’

  Danny reached up and traced his chubby finger down the side of her face. His bitter breath wafted over her and she almost gagged.

  Her arm ached with the bundle she held. It was only some shirts and a few petticoats, but it was becoming heavy.

  As his jagged nail scratched along her cheekbone Danny gave a low chuckle.

  ‘Ellen O’Casey thinks she’s too grand for the likes of us,’ he said to Black Mike but keeping his gaze on Ellen. ‘She’s forgotten how grateful she was when she was offered a chance to earn a bob or two singing for my customers.’

  Ellen’s head snapped around. ‘I bring in custom and coin from all over the city for you and you still pay me short of my worth,’ she told him, glaring up at him.

  ‘See what I mean, Mike, too grand she is now that Doctor Munroe’s turned her head,’ Danny spat out.

  ‘You must have been drinking your own foul brandy to imagine such a thing,’ Ellen said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Don’t play the respectable widow with me, Ellen O’Casey. You were flirting with him, so you were.’

  Danny had let go of her, but before she could put any distance between them his left arm shot around her waist. His other hand went to her skirt and he grabbed at her private parts.

  ‘It’s been over ten years since you had a man, you must be like a she-cat on the tiles by now. Let me ease you.’

  Ellen shoved his hand away and dropped the washing. Danny laughed and Mike joined in. She gave them a contemptuous glare and stooped to retrieved her bundle, which had landed square on a pile of rotting fish heads. It would take her a good hour to scrub the smell out of the shirts.

  Trembling with anger she spun around and faced Danny. He remained astride the pavement with his fists balled on his hips, grinning down at her.

  ‘Let me past, Danny Donovan, or by the Holy Mother Mary and Joseph, I’ll curse your devil soul where you stand,’ she said through clenched teeth.

  At last, with a hard laugh, he stepped aside. Ellen swept past him, her eyes blinded by tears of rage and frustration.

  Five

  Robert and his student doctors had strolled through the wards for the past two hours and seen everything from a sailor with scurvy to a young lad who had cut his foot on a spike of metal in the Thames mud the day before.

  Unfortunately, there was one illness his trainee doctors did not see because the damn fool hospital trustees wouldn’t allow patients suffering from it to be admitted.

  They were now back in the laboratory.

  With his hand lightly resting on the microscope, Robert looked at the four students who sat around the scrubbed bench. ‘Now, tell me what you know about cholera, St John.’

  ‘It comes from the East, India,’ St John answered.

  ‘Benthan.’

  Benthan adjusted his cravat. ‘The first sign is fever followed by nausea and watery bowels.’

  ‘What then, Maltravers?’ Robert asked, seeing Bulmer, the hospital manservant, entering the room.

  ‘Cramps in the guts and thirst, often followed by death in twenty-four to forty-eight hours,’ Maltravers answered.

  Robert gave them all a broad smile and their shoulders relaxed. ‘Good, good. Now, what causes it? Young?’

  ‘I believe the current understanding is that it is carried in foul air,’ Young answered.

  Robert pursed his lips and clasped his hands behind his back.

  ‘I believe the majority of my peers would agree with you,’ he said. Young looked smug. ‘I, on the other hand, do not. I believe cholera is carried in the water, by invisible entities or germs.’ All four students looked sceptical. ‘You must have read Needham’s work on infusoria animalcules. Or Spallanzani on killing these “germs” by boiling so that no decomposition occurs?’

  The students shuffled under Robert’s challenging gaze, then Maltravers spoke. ‘How so, sir?’

  Gripping the microscope Robert leant forward. ‘Because I believe, through reasoning and deduction, there are organisms smaller than the eye can see at present, even with this. He lifted the microscope in his hand. ‘I believe that a minute organism, or germ, is the cause of cholera, and many other diseases besides. It is only a matter of time until we can prove it.’

  Bulmer was signalling to him but Robert continued. ‘Jenner’s work pointed to it, when he observed the spread of cowpox. Many now are looking seriously at the germ theory.’

  Bulmer was now staring at him with his hands behind his back. Robert sighed. ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen to think on these matters while I go and see what has sent Bulmer to find me.’

  Rinsing and drying his hands under the pump in the corner Robert made his way over to Bulmer.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Doctor Munroe, but Doctor Davies asked to see you in his study when you have a moment,’ said the manservant, handing Robert his jacket.

  Robert’s footsteps echoed through the corridor until he reached the half-glass partition of Doctor Davies’s door. He knocked and, after the briefest of pauses, it was opened by Davies’s assistant.

  The chief physician of the hospital sat behind his mahogany desk and peered at Robert from between two mountains of paper. To one side were an inkwell, several quills, a large blotter and a glass of clear liquid. Around the wall were shelves stacked with books, and more papers.

  Thomas Davies was six or seven inches shorter than Robert. He was in his late forties with a receding hairline which he disguised by combing his parting low on the left side.

  ‘Good of you to come,’ he said as Robert took a seat. ‘Our hospital chairman, Lord Bowden, tells me you are filling the heads of our student physicians with science.’

  ‘I am.’

  Davies lent forward and his face creased in a smile which made him look ten years younger.

  ‘Good.’

  Robert’s shoulders relaxed. ‘I knew I could count on your support. Although, I must confess I am surprised that His Lordship knows my name.’

  Davies pulled out two letters from the pile on his desk. ‘You are too modest, Munroe. Your name is known to a great number of people.’ He tapped the papers. ‘I have le
tters here from Lord Ashley and Sir Malcolm Dyer, both of whom praise your work. Do you know these gentlemen?’

  ‘I know Lord Ashley by reputation. He is a member of the Parliamentary Commission on Factory Conditions. Sir Malcolm I know very well. He has worked with my father and is the parliamentary representative of the Women’s Society for Moral Improvement.’

  ‘Of which your mother is chairwoman.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘They both urge me to appoint you as the chairman of the Emergency Committee for St George’s parish to investigate the cholera outbreak.’

  I would have thought Sir Charles Huntly would be the obvious choice,’ Robert said, trying to contain his excitement at the prospect now opening before him.

  ‘Not according to Lord Ashley or Sir Malcolm, who urges me to’ - he adjusted his glasses - ‘and I quote, “recognise a gifted young man, who has an incisive mind and exceptional talents”’.

  Robert felt his face grow red.

  ‘Would you accept the post if I offered it to you?’

  What he could only do in such a position! He could force the parish street committees to clear the filth from the gutters as they should. He could compel landlords to provide adequate water and sanitation for their tenants. He might even be able to persuade the parish to open a small cottage hospital to care for those suffering from cholera, as had been done in other cities.

  ‘Not if you offered me the post because of political pressure,’ he replied firmly.

  ‘That’s just what I expected you to say. I am offering you the post because you are the only doctor I know with a thorough knowledge of the medical and social issues that surround cholera.’ Davies raised his hand to his mouth and coughed. ‘There is a small remuneration attached to the post.’

  Although Robert would have taken the chairmanship without any financial reward, London prices were eating up his modest wages of one hundred and fifty pounds, and the seventy pounds dividend from his shares in the new Manchester to Liverpool railway, at an alarming rate. His private practice in Chapel Street generated an income but it wasn’t large, and was less than it could have been because in many cases he charged only the cost of the medicine.