“-is correct. We must test the blood, but I do believe this man was poisoned.”
“And the prior victims?”
“I shall give an exhumation order to the authorities.”
I untied the apron and disposed of the gloves. “Thank you for allowing me to assist you,” I told him as I put on my black cape, the one I had been issued when I was a nursing student at St. Thomas Hospital, which I still wore. It was practical on a chilly, foggy morning... and it made me feel mysterious.
“You will need to be at the inquest,” he said. “I do not anticipate that my findings will be in dispute, so I shall not depute you to represent me, but I would like you to attend.”
“Of course, sir, if you wish.”
I walked toward the door, and he called out, “Dr. Stamford.”
I turned around. “Yes?”
To my utter amazement, he swallowed his arrogance and said, “Well done.”
No longer able to complain of low spirits, and my feet swift and light as if they were negotiating a skipping rope, I flew down the stairs. I paused for a moment in the Great Hall of the oldest hospital in Britain... a hospital that now boasted over six hundred beds. A hospital that treated over a hundred thousand patients each year. A hospital that employed four resident surgeons, one of whom was my uncle, two resident apothecaries, including Mr. Brown, who were always on duty, day and night, a college within itself and a first-class medical school.
I turned to face the Grand Staircase and looked up at paintings that had hung there for over a hundred years: one of “The Good Samaritan,” the second, “The Pool of Bethesda,” one of Rayer, the jester of Henry I, laying the first stone of the hospital, and a fourth of a sick man being carried on a bier by monks. In this hospital, I had just conducted - well, assisted in - an autopsy.
I set out across the vast courtyard, dipped my hand gleefully in the fountain and took a seat on a bench. Then I opened Effie’s journal.
14
I let my fingertips glide over the leather and circle the crest of Effie’s journal. I thought of the many lovely books that I cherished back at home in my parents’ library, ones with which I had whiled away many afternoons in the sunny window seat. Now they were probably as covered with dust as the bottom of my long, sweeping skirts had been when I went to the stables until Effie made me pantaloons for riding.
I opened the journal to the first page. I recognized the handwriting, of course; the handwriting was small and delicate, just like the author. A shock of grief jolted me as my eyes focused on a tear stain at the silver-edged length of the page, just over the “d,” the final letter in her name.
Last Diary of Euphemia O’Flahertie Stamford
I turned the page and found a poem. I had never known Effie to write a poem, but nothing could surprise me where she was concerned.
You must not linger at my grave and cry
For in your memories I cannot pass away
In memories of the small things not forgotten
In diamond tree limbs and scraping blades on ice
In stars that shine and fairy myths and sunny summer days by rivers
In the autumn rush of blowing winds and secrets hushed
Softly tucked away
In trees still green and sky still blue
In wicker rockers on the porch and hope chests
Like ancient stories or antique timepieces that march on
In these I shall remain
So listen just before you wake, not just for tree frogs and the howling wind
But for the gentlest breeze, and for murmurs, whispers low
in the sweet dreams in your sleep
Do not weep
Something may lay buried there beneath the ground, beneath the grass
But I am not there beneath the petals and the sprays
For now I scry beyond the rods of sunlight
In the mists, in the haze
So do not linger at my grave and cry
Of course, Effie was as luminous in death as she was in life, and I immediately felt the tears begin to fall. I took out my hankie, wiped my face and continued reading.
August 1876
“I am not frightened by what I know is coming. I have enough memories for a lifetime,” she wrote.
“A wonderful childhood. A loving family. The truest friend anyone could have - you, Poppy.
“Do you remember, Poppy, that day we were cycling the grounds of Oxford and I stopped so abruptly that you very nearly ran into me? I was blunt with you - about your complaining nature - because I could be candid with you. We were the truest of friends.”
I did remember. Tired of my chronic lamentations about the barriers to women seeking a higher education, she hopped from her bicycle and lashed out at me. “You will find a way, Poppy,” she’d said. “Just as I will find a way to create beautiful hats and sell them in London. We will have what we want. Certainly, you will.”
Indeed she had. She’d opened her little millinery shop, despite the protestations of her mother and her future husband, my brother Michael.
“And then I found the truest love with Michael. I remember every word he has said to me. Always filled with love. Especially our wedding vows.
“Oh, my wedding day... it was everything I had hoped for though Mother insisted that I wear the current fashion instead of something more adventurous. She would have none of my wild sketches, even though I had already seen my visions coming true, especially on the Continent. I know you don’t care for such things, Poppy, but heed my words, what we wear now will be completely out of fashion in less than five years.”
She was right, of course. Within a few years, women had a very different look. The bustles had diminished, the poufs in skirts had dropped to behind the knees and the bodices were long and smooth in a style known as the cuirasse. The cuirasse bodice was corset-like, and
