Poison at the Pump Read online

  I need to get to a hospital, Patrick thought.

  A door from a nearby building opened with a bang.

  Patrick looked toward the sound.

  Rosie stood by the open door. Two young men and a boy Patrick’s age came out. They looked like Rosie. They were probably her brothers. She pointed at Dr. Snow.

  Rosie’s brothers moved toward them. One had a stick in his hand. The youngest carried Rosie’s bucket.

  Dr. Snow turned toward them. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Water,” one said. He pounded the ground with his stick. “And you’re not going to stop us.” He raised the stick, as if to hit Dr. Snow.

  Dr. Snow turned to Patrick. He shouted, “Run!”

  Curate Henry Whitehead

  Beth opened her eyes. She was in a kitchen. It had a stone floor and an old-fashioned black stove. Two slices of fresh-baked bread sat on a plate on the counter. Two metal tubs sat on stools.

  Beth didn’t see Patrick anywhere. She did see a dingy patch on her blue skirt. The skirt ended midway between her knees and feet. A blue shirt was tucked into it.

  A black ribbon was in her hand. The numbers 178866 were stitched on it.

  Perhaps the Imagination Station had given the ribbon to her. Beth smiled. Maybe the Imagination Station was still working. She tied the ribbon around her ponytail.

  A wooden door creaked open. A man walked into the kitchen. He wore black pants and a black shirt. The shirt had black buttons down the front.

  “Are you here to wash the breakfast dishes?” he asked.

  Beth didn’t want to lie. “I know how to wash dishes,” she said.

  “Fine,” he said. “My name is Curate Henry Whitehead. The plates are in the tub with soapy water. There’s clean water in the second bucket. What’s your name?”

  “Beth,” she said.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Henry said. He had dark circles around his eyes. He looked tired. “There’s bread and a cup of tea for your payment. Do you have any questions?”

  “Yes,” Beth said. “What is a curate?”

  Henry’s eyebrows rose. He looked surprised by the question. “I help the pastor of the church in this London parish,” he said. “I’m like a pastor in training.”

  He gave a merry laugh. “That means I do the jobs no one else wants.”

  “Like the dishes,” Beth said.

  Henry laughed again. “Very similar,” he said. “I visit the poor at the workhouse and the sick in the neighborhood. I also preach the service at five in the morning.”

  “That’s early,” Beth said. She rolled up her sleeves and turned toward the soapy water. “Are there a lot of sick people to visit?”

  Henry sighed. “There are more every day,” he said.

  “Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?” Beth asked.

  “My trust is in God alone,” Henry said.

  A knock sounded at the outside door. Henry hurried to it and pushed it open.

  Odd. Most outside doors pull in, Beth thought.

  “Hello,” a teen boy said. He had dark-brown hair and a few freckles.

  “Good morning, Clyde,” Henry said. He motioned for Clyde to come into the kitchen. “I’ve been meaning to visit your aunt. How is she doing?”

  Henry closed the door.

  “She has good and bad days,” Clyde said. “Have you found my uncle’s will?”

  “No,” Henry said. “But I continue to search for it.”

  Beth finished washing the dishes. She found a towel to dry them.

  “Thank you,” Clyde said. “I’m actually here for another reason. Dr. Snow had me take the handle off the Broad Street pump. He thinks cholera is infecting people through the pump’s water.”

  Henry threw up his hands. “Dr. Snow’s foolishness is hurting the poor people of my church,” he said. “I must convince him to put the handle back on!”

  “How will you get him to do that?” Clyde asked.

  Henry stopped to think.

  “This problem sounds like a mystery,” Beth said. “You could ask people. Did they drink water from the pump? Or did they drink water from somewhere else?”

  “Excellent idea. I will prove Dr. Snow’s theory is wrong,” Henry said. “Clyde, would you talk to people on Broad Street? Ask them about their water-drinking habits. I will too.”

  Henry smiled at Clyde. He said, “You can have a slice of bread before you go. Is that payment enough?”

  “Yes!” Clyde said.

  Henry nodded. “I’m off,” he said. “It was nice meeting you, Beth.”

  “It was nice meeting you too, Curate Whitehead,” Beth said.

  Henry shut the door behind him.

  Clyde picked up a slice of bread. “You have the same accent as Dr. Snow’s friend,” he said. He bit into the bread.

  “I don’t have an accent,” Beth said.

  “You’re American, aren’t you?” Clyde asked. He took another bite. “My uncle’s shop has oil from America.”

  Beth turned to face Clyde. “Is Dr. Snow’s friend American?” she asked.

  Clyde shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “His name’s Patrick.”

  “That’s my cousin,” Beth said. “Where did you see him? Can you take me to him?”

  Clyde finished his breakfast. “I’d like to,” he said. “But I’m working for Curate Whitehead now. I need to deliver water to customers.”

  “I’ll pay for your help,” Beth said. “You can have my piece of bread and my cup of tea.”

  Clyde looked thoughtful. “The streets here are like a maze,” he said. “I’ll take you to Broad Street.” Clyde took a scrap of cloth out of his shirt. He gently folded Beth’s slice of bread in it.

  “I’ll be glad to eat this at dinnertime,” he said.

  Beth pushed on the back door to open it. The door didn’t budge. She pulled. Nothing.

  “What’s the matter?” Clyde asked.

  “The door’s locked,” Beth said.

  Clyde pushed against it. The door wouldn’t open for him either.

  “It’s been barred on the outside,” Clyde said.

  “Why would anyone bar a door from the outside?” Beth asked.

  “The owner of this boardinghouse was married. Her husband grew forgetful,” Clyde said. “She changed the way the doors opened. She also put a bar across the outside. That’s how he stayed safe inside on her shopping days.”

  Beth hurried through the dining room to the front door. She grabbed the handle. The lever went up and down. But the door didn’t open.

  Clyde followed her into the room. He looked shocked. He said, “Someone doesn’t want us to leave. We’re trapped!”

  Mobbed

  Patrick looked over his shoulder. Rosie’s brothers were still chasing them. They were upset about the Broad Street pump’s handle being removed. They wanted the handle put back on.

  Patrick shoved Dr. Snow’s map inside his vest. He tried to stay close to Dr. Snow.

  Dr. Snow turned right on Portland Street.

  Patrick followed.

  “Give us back our water!” one boy shouted.

  Patrick could hear the pounding of their boots on the bricks. They weren’t far behind.

  A rock flew through the air.

  “Ow!” Patrick said. The rock bounced off his shoulder.

  “We’ll make our own handle!” another shouted.

  Patrick’s side began to hurt. It felt like someone was pinching him.

  Was this the first sign of cholera? he wondered.

  Dr. Snow looked behind them.

  Patrick looked also.

  The young men had stopped running.

  Dr. Snow and Patrick slowed to a walk. They turned onto Berwick Street.

  “You should be safe now,” Dr. Snow said.

  Patrick nodded. He still had to catch his breath. He took out Dr. Snow’s map. He recognized some of the streets now.

  “I’m headed to the hospital,” Dr. Snow said. “Are you staying with a relative?
”

  “No,” Patrick said. He folded the map and handed it back to Dr. Snow. “Can I go with you to the hospital?”

  Dr. Snow frowned as if he didn’t want Patrick to join him. But he said, “Very well. Keep up.” He put the map in his jacket pocket. Then he started to walk at a brisk pace.

  Patrick had to trot to keep up with Dr. Snow.

  Patrick felt relieved. Someone at the hospital would know how to cure him.

  “What are the symptoms of cholera?” he asked.

  “A twisting pain in your stomach is the first sign,” Dr. Snow said. “Eventually you lose all the water in your body. That’s what kills you.”

  Patrick decided he’d only had a side-ache from running.

  The buildings were taller and wider than those on Broad Street. They passed a sign that read “Society for the Relief of Widows and Orphans of Medical Men.” Other buildings also had signs with official-sounding titles.

  They turned down another street and then another.

  Patrick saw a large group of people ahead of them.

  The group stood next to an iron fence. The iron fence was in front of an enormous white brick building. The building was shaped like a square U.

  Patrick pointed. “What’s going on there?” he asked.

  “It looks like the hospital isn’t letting in visitors,” Dr. Snow said. “It must be full of cholera patients.”

  “But I drank water from the pump,” Patrick said. “I need to get medicine for cholera.”

  “Medicine?” Dr. Snow asked.

  “Or have a medical test,” Patrick said. “Or even get a shot. I need to be cured.”

  “What do you mean?” Dr. Snow asked. He shook his head. “There’s no cure for cholera.”

  “What?” Patrick asked.

  “You need to find a relative or friend,” Dr. Snow said. “They can take care of you in case you have the disease.” Dr. Snow walked through the group of people toward the gate.

  Patrick rushed into the crowd after him.

  A man shouted, “You have no right to keep us out!”

  Three policemen stood between the mob and the gate. The crowd surged forward. The officers pushed people back.

  “I have to know about my aunt!” a woman said. “I told my uncle I’d bring word about Susana.”

  A woman was crying. A young girl rushed past Patrick and almost knocked him over. A man in rumpled clothes helped Patrick regain his balance.

  “Thank you,” Patrick said.

  “You’re not from around here,” the man said. “Your accent is funny. A girl around your age was brought here a couple minutes ago.”

  A dog barked.

  “What was her name?” Patrick asked. “Did they take her inside?”

  “They take all the sick inside,” the man said.

  Oh no, Patrick thought. Could Beth be sick in this hospital?

  The crowd tightened around Patrick. He felt a sharp elbow to his stomach. Patrick couldn’t catch his breath. He felt lightheaded. He fell at Dr. Snow’s feet.

  Off and Running

  Beth went back to the kitchen. There was a large window in the room. But it was made of too many small panes. She couldn’t fit through.

  “Maybe we can climb out another window,” she said. She rushed toward the dining room.

  “The dining room window is long and narrow,” Clyde called. “It won’t work.”

  Clyde was right. Beth couldn’t fit through it either.

  “Is there another way out?” Beth asked.

  Clyde came into the dining room. “No. There are only two doors,” he said.

  Beth walked into the front parlor. A sofa was along one wall. A chair with a floral design was in front of the window. Clyde followed her.

  “We’re not allowed in here,” Clyde said. “The boardinghouse owner won’t like it.”

  Beth ignored him. She hurried to the window and tried to open it. The window was painted shut. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Who would trap us?” Beth asked. She didn’t know anyone here. “Do you have enemies?”

  Clyde shook his head. “I’m not rich enough to have enemies,” he said. “Old Willie doesn’t like me. Aunt May is upset with me. But that’s all.”

  Beth frowned.

  A staircase was across the room. Beth hurried up the steps.

  “You can’t go up there,” Clyde called.

  Beth walked into the first bedroom. The window opened easily. But it was a straight drop to the ground.

  “Come back down,” Clyde called from the parlor.

  Beth hurried across the hallway to another room. It had a large window. She looked outside. There were vines climbing up the side of the house.

  Beth knew how to climb a tree. She was sure she could climb vines. She opened the window.

  She called to Clyde, “I’ll open the back door when I get down.”

  Beth flung her legs over the window’s ledge. Then she turned on her stomach. Her legs dangled outside the window. She reached with her toe to find a foothold.

  “What’re you doing?” Clyde asked. He stood by the door. “This is someone’s bedroom.”

  “Nice people don’t trap other people,” Beth said. “I’m not waiting for a bad person to find me.” She found a nook for her right foot. She reached for a foothold for her left foot.

  “Don’t let anyone see you,” Clyde said.

  Beth found a second foothold. She let go of the sill and grabbed the vines. She slowly started to climb down from the second story. Right foot. Left foot.

  Suddenly her left foot slipped. She started to slide.

  Beth screamed.

  Clyde grabbed for her. Her fingers slipped through his hands.

  Beth looked around for help. She saw a tall man and a dainty woman in the distance. The woman wore a black dress and the man had on a purple jacket. They pointed at her. But they were too far away to help.

  Beth tried to scramble back toward the window. She grabbed at vines to keep from falling. Her knuckles scraped the brick wall. Her heart was racing.

  The dainty woman and the tall man ran toward her. They were half a block away.

  Finally, Beth’s left hand grabbed a vine that held.

  Beth took a deep breath. She slowly found a nook for her left foot. Then she found one for her right.

  “I’m fine,” she shouted. She waved to the dainty woman and the tall man.

  They didn’t wave back.

  Beth started climbing down again. Soon she reached the ground. She immediately ran to the kitchen door. She lifted the bar and opened the door.

  “Clyde,” Beth called.

  “I’m here,” Clyde said. He stepped outside.

  The tall man ran around the corner of the boardinghouse. He had gangly arms and legs. The man reminded Beth of a purple spider. The dainty woman was no longer with him.

  “Clyde Wendell,” the man shouted. His voice was rough and mean. His purple jacket and pants looked worn.

  “Clyde didn’t climb out the window,” Beth said. “I did. It’s my fault.”

  He was only a few yards away from them. His arms stretched forward. He looked like he wanted to grab them.

  Clyde pushed Beth away from the man.

  “Don’t let Old Willie catch you,” Clyde said. “Or you’re done for.”

  They both started running.

  They ran through side streets and onto Berwick Street.

  “Why is Old Willie chasing us?” Beth asked.

  “He’s in charge of the workhouse. He wants me to work for him,” Clyde said. “But he’d take you, too.”

  Old Willie kept chasing them.

  Berwick Street was filled with people. Large and small carriages were stopped in traffic. Shops and tradespeople lined the street. Everyone was yelling.

  “Buy my saddles!”

  “Beautiful gloves!”

  Clyde and Beth dodged through the crowds. They jumped over the garbage piled next to stalls.

  The street smelled
like cinnamon, fish, and a horse stable. One man stood in a doorway. He was skinning an eel.

  They left Berwick Street. Clyde guided Beth past a row of three-story brick buildings. They were side by side like townhomes. He cut through a narrow lane between two of the buildings.

  Beth looked over her shoulder.

  Old Willie stopped following them. “I’ll get you back!” he shouted. “I’ll get you both!” He shook a fist at them.

  Escape

  Patrick slowly came out of a lovely dream. He had made it back to the Imagination Station. Whit’s new device had cleansed him from cholera.

  Patrick opened his eyes. It was only a dream.

  He was lying on a bed in a long room. Many other beds were in the room. All their headboards were against the wall. Some of the patients were moaning. The whole place smelled like soap.

  But now Patrick knew what to do. He had to find the right liquid. Then the Imagination Station would return. And it would cure him.

  “Not here, gentlemen,” a woman said. She had dark-brown hair and wore a white-lace cap. A long white apron covered most of her black gown.

  Dr. Snow stood by the bed. A man leaned toward him. “You removed the pump handle. The poor in my church now have to walk many blocks for water.”

  “I’ve saved their lives, Curate Whitehead,” Dr. Snow said. “The cholera infection comes through the water at the Broad Street pump.”

  “How can you say that?” the curate said.

  “Look at this,” Dr. Snow said. He unfolded a paper. It was the map Patrick had seen before.

  “These show the deaths by cholera. Talk to the people in your church. Talk to the sick and to those who aren’t sick. Then tell me I’m wrong,” Dr. Snow said.

  “Enough!” the nurse said.

  “I thought you were on my side,” the curate said.

  “I am,” she said. “But first I’m on the side of my patients. This is a sick room. Take your argument outside!”

  Both men looked ashamed.

  “I’m sorry, Nurse Nightingale,” the curate said.