The Last Days of Newgate - Andrew Pepper [114]
Kennett did not seem to know whether to be chastened or outraged.
Pyke continued, ‘I am not a vindictive man and I can tell from your response that concern for your own well-being, if not your patients, is evident. I am prepared, at this stage, to monitor the situation rather than advocate more drastic action. But I will need to examine the patients for early signs of the disease . . .’
The chance that Pyke might leave him alone produced a change in the physician’s demeanour. ‘Of course, I would welcome your opinion and would be greatly honoured if you would permit me to accompany you and to assist your work in every way that I can.’
Pyke wondered whether he should lift up his boots so the man could lick them. He checked his fob-watch. Earlier, Townsend had visited the kitchen and bribed the cook to mix a plant extract Pyke had procured from a London botanist with Sarah Blackwood’s gruel. It would, the botanist promised him, temporarily induce sickness once the extract had been properly digested. The cook had also helped to identify which one of the fifteen patients was Emily’s mother. Not that the cook knew her name or any of their names; but having served under Kennett for as long as the asylum had been running, she was quite certain there was only one patient who had been there for as long as fifteen years.
Back in the ward, Pyke wandered along the row of tightly arranged beds and eventually came to a halt at the foot of one occupied by the figure identified by the cook. For a while, he studied her withered, bony face but saw nothing that connected her to Emily. What was left of her hair was parted in the middle to reveal a wrinkled scalp, and the bones in her arms and legs seemed so brittle that Pyke wondered how it might be possible to move her. Her stare was hollow and the stink of faeces and camphor emanating from her made him want to gag. Pyke could see that her whole side was covered in bed sores. A spool of vomit had congealed down the front of her gown.
Stepping forward, he inspected her in greater detail. This was largely for Kennett’s benefit, but Pyke also wanted some reassurance that this elderly woman was, indeed, Emily’s mother.
‘This patient will have to be isolated immediately,’ he said, without equivocation.
‘But I don’t have such facilities,’ Kennett stammered weakly.
‘Then we shall have to remove her from these premises forthwith.’ He turned to face the physician. ‘What’s her name?’
Kennett seemed panicked. ‘I can’t . . .’
‘Her name, dammit.’ Pyke turned to Townsend and ordered him to fetch the trolley.
‘I can’t release her without the permission of her guardian.’
Pyke turned on him. ‘Have you any idea how quickly the disease can spread in these situations?’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Stop stuttering, man.’ Pyke shouted after Townsend. ‘Quickly, man. We haven’t got a moment to lose.’
At this point, the old woman whom Pyke presumed and hoped was Emily’s mother groaned and from her mouth came a blast of frothy vomit. That seemed to put an end to the physician’s resistance.
‘Take the old bitch,’ he muttered, defeated.
Pyke had to rein in his desire to assault the pudgy doctor with every sinew in his body.
In the carriage that he had commandeered for the purpose of transporting the elderly patient back to London, Pyke arranged the stretcher carrying Emily’s mother in order to make the journey as painless as possible, but the turnpike was not smooth and the suspension on the carriage had been worn down. Each jolt and bump produced an exclamation of discomfort, and after each Pyke leaned forward, stroked the old woman’s face and offered words of reassurance. Townsend