moving towards the boiler with weary amusement.
‘I am parched, now you mention it.’
Winnie got to her feet and made efforts to convince Miss Campbell, who had declined Alice’s offer, that it would be wise to keep hydrated. She then hovered behind Alice and warned her of the perils inherent in carrying out any activity involving boiling water. ‘I have everything under control, Winnie, thank you,’ Alice said with impatience.
The almoner warmed the office teapot using the water bubbling away in a large pot on top of the boiler. After setting a few mismatched cups on top of an empty desk, she swirled the hot water around the pot and emptied the vestiges into the large porcelain sink in the corner of the room. She scooped a caddy spoon of tea leaves inside, the soothing simplicity of the act at odds with the concerns that had been swirling in her mind over the last couple of days, since visiting the Redbournes’ house.
Outside, there was a temporary reprieve from the rain. A shaft of winter sunlight shone through the grime-covered, half-blocked windows, temporarily transforming the gloomy office from dungeon to a bright, airy place. The fug of ink, damp paper and coal in the air lifted momentarily, returning less than a minute later when the sun disappeared behind a cloud.
‘What have I told you?’ Frank roared a minute later, jumping to his feet. ‘Milk in last, not first!’ He strode towards Alice, pipe in hand, his grizzled features screwed up in mock disgust. ‘If you were my wife I’d ask you to tip that away and start again.’
Alice lowered the teapot to the desk and grabbed one of the cups. ‘If we were married, Frank,’ she said, thrusting the steaming drink towards him, ‘it wouldn’t be me making the tea.’ Frank stared at her and took the proffered drink with his habitual hangdog expression. Seconds later, in a huff of smoke and quivering jowls, he bellowed with laughter. A few feet away, Alexander seated himself behind his desk with a look of distaste.
Alice rolled her eyes and passed another of the drinks, this time with more grace, to Dr Harland. After sliding her own cup onto the edge of her desk, she sat beside the doctor and switched on her desk lamp. Light pooled on the slew of beige folders that lay between them, the Redbourne file uppermost in the pile.
As Alice reached out and pulled the folder down in front of her, Winnie appeared. Her handbag was clasped in one arthritic hand, and she picked up Alice’s cup with the other. ‘Where would you like your tea, dear?’
Alice pushed her chair back and half stood up to retrieve it. ‘Where it was,’ she said tersely, replacing it on the edge of her desk. Winnie’s gaze flicked between Alice and the cup as if trying to communicate the folly of such action, but then she shuffled wordlessly back to her desk.
Before Alice opened the file in front of her, the doctor asked if any progress had been made in securing convalescence for one of his elderly tubercular patients who wasn’t well enough to go home.
‘Grove House in Eastbourne has reserved a place for the beginning of February. They’ve booked Mr Hobbs in for at least two weeks.’
Dr Harland grunted his approval, dipped his fountain pen in the inkwell of Alice’s desk and scribbled something in his notebook. ‘And Mrs Taylor?’
‘I saw her just after Christmas. I managed to convince her to apply for a crisis loan from the Samaritan Fund.’ Mrs Taylor’s husband, Simon, had recently been diagnosed with cancer of the lung, but was struggling to come to terms with the poor prognosis he’d been given. Medical staff had encouraged him to share the burden with his wife, but he continued to reassure her that he’d be back on his feet in a day or two. While it wasn’t up to Alice to break patient confidentiality, she had been able to visit Mrs Taylor to make sure that the practicalities of losing the family’s sole breadwinner were taken care of. A proud, respectable sort of woman, she had been reluctant to even discuss any form of assistance, but with two weeks’ rent arrears and only enough food left to last the week, she eventually conceded that she needed some help. By the time Alice left her, she had been tearfully grateful.
Alice and Peter Harland’s discussion turned to the family of a child who had died on the chest ward overnight. Nine-year-old Clara Stewart had been suffering from consumption complicated by pneumonia, and by the time she reached hospital it had been too late for doctors to save her. Clara’s parents had never been able to afford to have a family photograph taken and were desperate to take advantage of their one last opportunity to secure a memento mori, something that was certain to become a treasured keepsake, before their daughter’s body was buried. ‘The poor family,’ Alice said softly. ‘I’ll make an urgent application to the Samaritan Fund. I’m sure the panel won’t have any –’
Dr Harland waved his hand. ‘That will take time we don’t have,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of the expenses. All I’m asking is that you make the necessary contact with a post-mortem photographer. Not all will take on such a task.’
Alice turned to face him, her expression soft. ‘That is very decent of you.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he mumbled gruffly. ‘Anything else? I need to get –’
‘Just a minute!’ Frank piped up from across the room. ‘Isn’t photography a hobby of yours, Alex? Perhaps you could help them out?’
‘I prefer my subjects to have a pulse, but it’s terribly good of you to think of me, Frank,’ Alexander answered icily, his gaze on the papers in front of him.
‘I need to get back to the ward if there’s nothing else?’ The doctor tapped his fingers on the desk with impatience.
Alice rested her hand on the Redbournes’ file, her expression thoughtful. She hesitated for a moment before asking, ‘Do you remember tending to a child called Henry Redbourne? He came in at the beginning of the summer. You treated him for pneumonia.’
The doctor gave a small nod. ‘Is he unwell again?’
‘No, he seems perfectly well. It’s just that …’ She opened the file in front of her. ‘We called in on the family and,’ she paused, rolling her lips in on themselves. Across the room, Frank, who had been making notes in a ledger, peered up at her. ‘The children seemed quite well, but something wasn’t right.’
The doctor looked at Alice, his green eyes cloudy with impatience. ‘In what way?’
‘I am not sure exactly. Their eldest was upset and … I mean, she didn’t say much but she didn’t really need to. There was something … I still cannot grasp what it was, but it was unsettling. There was definitely something. I could feel it.’
The doctor raised his heavy brows. ‘I prefer to deal with facts, Miss Hudson. Not feelings.’
Alice stared at him for a moment before answering. ‘Yes, of course.’ She lowered her gaze, returning her attention to the file. She flicked through the papers and then turned back to the doctor. ‘A financial assessment was carried out before Henry’s admission, and when his siblings were treated before him, but the parents were not forthcoming at the time and –’ Her words were left floating in the air.
Dr Harland said nothing, but his lips narrowed into a thin line.
‘I wondered if you might shed a little light on the family, if you have memory of them?’ Alice pressed.
Dr Harland inched back in his chair, bristling. ‘They’re fairly respectable, from what I recall. We’re talking relatively, of course. But I noticed nothing out of
