‘Mr Raven, it appears we are rightly informed that you are back in town.’
His voice was a rasp, but it carried a weight nonetheless, albeit borrowed from the man he worked for.
‘If you were rightly informed you would know it is Dr Raven.’
‘Either way, get in. Your presence is sought.’
‘And politely declined. I have a prior engagement. I am expected imminently at the Maternity Hospital.’
Raven heard a heavy thump of feet hitting the ground, a figure having jumped from the other side of the coach. A shadow loomed across the cobbles, stretched not merely by the low angle of the sun, and a moment later Raven was reacquainted with another grotesquery. It was the fellow he had christened ‘Gargantua’. He was by some distance the tallest and largest man in Edinburgh, but not proportionately so: it was as though he had been stricken by some abnormality that caused only certain parts of him to keep growing. His huge, stretched head accommodated features that were not in keeping with one another, a vast nose below two seemingly tiny eyes.
Raven to this day felt the reverberation of the man’s hammer-like fist, driven into his head unseen in an ambush. Nor would he ever forget the crushing weight of him as he pinned Raven to the sodden ground in that alley where his nightmare premonitions of death were born. But mostly what he recalled was the inescapable grip of his massive hands, which had held him down while another of Flint’s men, the one he called the Weasel, had taken a knife to Raven’s face.
‘It was not a request,’ said the deathly coachman.
Raven clung on to his seat as the carriage resumed its breakneck progress, though the coachman’s reckless driving was not the primary source of his discomfort. Sheer weight alone seemed enough to anchor the monster sitting opposite, who sat all the while eyeing Raven with undisguised malevolence.
Raven understood his resentment but still found it difficult to be quite as sympathetic as he ought, given Gargantua’s role in that alley. His enmity towards the giant, however, was as nothing compared to his hatred for the man who had wielded the blade.
Raven’s scar was like a physical manifestation of the anger he carried. It would never fade. He had been in many brawls, a good deal of which he had picked himself for no greater reason than a desire to unleash the turmoil within. He had felt pain after the fights he lost and shame after many of those he won – but no matter the outcome, he never bore a grudge against any opponent for the blows he dealt in combat. However, when a man was pinned and defenceless, defeated and posing no threat, to inflict pain and damage upon him was the act of a despicable coward. It was impossible to forgive, and the mere sight of Gargantua made him appreciate that his desire for vengeance upon the Weasel had not diminished – merely lain dormant.
After a singularly uncomfortable journey, seemingly hitting every pothole in Edinburgh, the Skeleton brought the vehicle to a halt outside a warehouse in a narrow alleyway off Lady Lawson’s Wynd. The air carried the stench of decay emanating from the many tanneries situated along the length of the West Port. Somehow this seemed appropriate.
Gargantua approached a door with peeling green paint, the sign above it having long since lost its lettering to the elements. He made a series of knocks, evidently a code of some kind. The door creaked open on rusty hinges and Raven was confronted with the visage he had come to hate most in this world. The Weasel greeted him with a sneer that combined simmering aggression with an undisguised smugness that Raven was effectively under his heel.
The intervening year had not been kind. The few teeth the whelp once possessed were gone, causing his face to collapse in on itself, and there was fresh bruising on the loose flesh of his right cheek. The hat he wore was tattered and his clothes hung loosely about his skinny frame.
‘Follow me,’ he grunted.
The interior was dusty and dark, but the smell was mercifully less appalling inside than out. Raven was led into an office, where the man who had summoned him was reclining on a chair, feet up on a desk, puffing on a fat cigar. The Weasel remained in the doorway, blocking his exit.
Callum Flint was another person he had been happy to put from his mind while he was abroad. Raven cursed himself for his naivety in thinking that his return to Edinburgh might have escaped Flint’s notice. In truth, he had sincerely hoped the man would be dead. He lived a dangerous life and was not short of enemies.
Flint was a money-lender, or at least that was how he would describe his means of income were anyone in authority to ask. He was a neat man, deceptively slight of build for one whose name carried such fear before it. Raven reasoned he did not need brawn himself while he retained Gargantua’s services, but nor did he believe that Flint had got where he was without a level of martial prowess and ruthlessness in dispensing it.
Raven had once owed him a debt, which Flint had commuted instead to what he referred to as ‘an understanding’. The oblique nature of this had troubled Raven from that moment forward, but he understood that when you do a deal with the devil, you generally don’t get to dictate the terms.
He had thought that in the time he was away, Flint might have accrued greater concerns that relegated Raven to an insignificance. How foolish he was to think so. Such men had long memories and an eye for detail where it represented an opportunity to exploit their fellow man.
Flint did not get up.
‘Do take a seat,’ he said, indicating the chair opposite his desk. It seemed incongruous that he should have such a thing, Raven imagining the man to deal entirely in theft and violence. He realised he had forgotten the mundane practicalities attendant upon money-lending.
‘I am not one of your employees, expected to jump when you snap your fingers,’ Raven told him, sending a glance towards the Weasel. He was in no mood for conversational niceties.
‘I wish to discuss your outstanding debt.’
‘I was under the impression that I no longer owed you money.’
‘It is my recollection that, in lieu of the money you owed, we had come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your debt is no longer a financial one, but an obligation to assist me – in any way I see fit – remains.’
‘What do you want?’ Raven asked, failing to keep impatience from his voice.
‘Chloroform,’ Flint replied.
‘Then present yourself at Duncan and Flockhart’s on Princes Street.’
The money-lender looked up at him with narrow eyes, a warning that his own patience was limited.
‘They only sell it to doctors and dentists. You know that.’
‘Yes. Because it is dangerous stuff, especially in the wrong hands. What would you want it for? Your more accustomed expedient of clubbing someone over the head produces much the same result.’
‘Strikes me there are ample possibilities, if one has the imagination.’
The Weasel nodded sagely. ‘I read in the newspaper about a man who woke up naked in a whore’s bed, having had all of his money stolen,’ he said. His voice was reedy and nasal, his diction not aided by the state of his mouth. ‘He claimed to have been chloroformed in the street.’
‘I find that extraordinarily improbable,’ Raven replied.
‘That a whore could be capable of such a thing?’ Flint asked incredulously.
‘No, that this specimen was reading a newspaper.’
Anger flashed in the Weasel’s eyes, not ameliorated by Flint’s obvious amusement at the remark.
‘As for the content of the story,’ Raven went on, ‘I think we can both imagine a more likely explanation for how that came about. No less an authority than Dr John Snow has disputed these sensational accounts of the use of chloroform in criminal matters. It is nigh impossible to administer it against a person’s will.’
‘Then why would you have an objection to supplying me with it?’
‘Because there are ample possibilities, if one has the imagination.’
Flint pulled his feet off the desk and stood up from his chair. He was shorter than Raven, but there was an
energy about him that was intimidating.
‘Are you refusing me, Doctor?’
‘Yes. If you wish to restore my pecuniary debt, very well. I will see it paid to be rid of you. Minus the fees I would expect for having delivered your wife of her child,’ he reminded him.
Flint stepped closer, their faces only inches apart.
‘I don’t think you understand. If I ask something of you, you do it, or there will be consequences.’
At that moment, Gargantua loomed in the doorway, demonstrating that he had been awaiting his cue, while before him the Weasel pulled out his knife.
SIXTEEN
arah put the last of the doctor’s instruments back into the battered leather bag and put on her coat. Their patient – Mrs Sutherland – was now wrapped in blankets and seemed much relieved that her ordeal was over. She was a fragile and anxious old lady and Dr Simpson had asked Sarah to accompany him as he thought that chloroform might be required for the minor procedure that he wished to perform. In the end the lady had managed without the aid of an anaesthetic, Sarah’s presence alone providing suitable reassurance and distraction.
‘I shall return in a day or two, Mrs Sutherland,’ Dr Simpson said, waving over his shoulder.
As they left the house, Sarah thought that this represented as good an opportunity as any to broach the subject that had been preying on her mind.
‘Is there ever any bleeding when such a procedure is performed?’ she asked.
‘The procedure itself or when the lint is removed?’
‘At any point. How likely would it be that there is significant bleeding?’
Dr Simpson stopped walking.
‘Significant haemorrhage would be unusual in such a case. At any point in the proceedings. Why do you ask?’ He looked at her with those piercing eyes which immediately told her he would not be fooled. He knew precisely why she was asking.
‘I know about the letters in the Monthly Journal,’ she admitted.
‘Are you worried that what they say is true?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ she said, hurt that he might believe that to be the case. ‘But such slander should not go uncontested.’
Dr Simpson resumed walking. ‘Do not concern yourself, Sarah. Their claims are groundless.’
‘Even so, they ought to be challenged. Perhaps Dr Johnstone would be willing to intervene. He could write a letter of support, stating the facts of the case.’
‘I have no wish to trouble the man. He has lost his wife and should not be dragged into this affair. The whole thing is unseemly. A scurrilous abomination.’
‘But—’
‘Sarah, I thank you for your concern, but I have no wish to discuss the matter further.’
As they proceeded down the High Street, past St Giles’, there was a near-continuous volley of greeting. Dr Simpson was well known, and evidently, despite the efforts of his detractors, still well regarded. Truth be told, it would be hard to miss him. He was quite distinctive in appearance and unlikely to be confused for another man. He had a large head, somewhat out of proportion with the rest of his body, and wore a narrow-brimmed hat, always pushed back, leaving the whole of his face exposed. His large nose, wide mouth and exuberant whiskers would have made him intimidating without his ready smile. He had a discernible presence, like the gravitational pull of a planet, irresistibly attracting lesser bodies into orbit around him.
But how long could such esteem last in the face of a sustained assault on his character? Sarah remained concerned and she knew that Dr Simpson was too.
‘We have one more visit to make,’ the doctor said, leading her across the road, away from a rowdy gaggle. A group of young men, bounded by several constables, was being marched towards the police office. A small crowd seemed to be trailing in their wake, intent on seeing who it was that the constables had apprehended.
They turned into Jackson’s Close, a narrow alleyway where daylight filtered through rows of laundry hanging limply from the windows on either side. Stepping over a puddle of stagnant, mucky water, they entered the crumbling edifice on the left side of the close and made their way to a door on the first floor. Their knock was answered by a worried-looking woman carrying a small, snot-nosed child.
‘Dr Simpson, thank the Lord you have returned. I fear she is no better.’
Sarah thought that the child looked perfectly well – nothing that a bath and some clean clothes would not cure – but it soon became clear that the child the mother held was not the patient they had come to see.
They were led into a small, simply furnished room. Their patient was lying in a truckle bed in front of a modest fire. She was as pale as the sheets she lay upon and her breathing consisted of short, raspy little gasps. Sarah wondered about the diagnosis. Consumption? Some form of infectious fever? There was a myriad of possibilities but naming the disease was of little consolation if nothing could be done.
Dr Simpson knelt down beside the bed and laid a gentle hand on the child’s head. There was no movement, not even a fluttering of the closed eyes in response. He removed the wooden stethoscope from his bag, placed it on the child’s chest and bent his head to listen.
Sarah noticed that the younger child, still clasped in the mother’s arms, was transfixed by this strange prostration. The mother, too, was watching intently, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. She lifted the corner of her apron with her free hand and wiped her face. As the doctor stood up, she put out her hand and clutched his arm, pulling on the thick material of his coat as though afraid she was about to fall. She looked directly at him and said in a whisper: ‘Doctor, what am I to do?’
Dr Simpson paused, then covered her hand with his and replied gently, ‘You must give her back to the Lord.’
The woman began to cry in earnest, letting go of the doctor’s sleeve and clutching the younger child closer to her.
‘My little Maggie was the same age when He took her,’ Dr Simpson said quietly. ‘I know how it is: how hard.’
Sarah felt the tears coming to her own eyes and was powerless to stop them. As she stood in the corner, witness to this most tragic of scenes, she wondered who her tears were really for.
SEVENTEEN
aven settled in behind his desk in the consulting room, preparing himself for the tide that Sarah would unleash when she began calling the morning’s patients. He tidied sheets of paper into neat piles, ensured his ink pot was full and noted the marked contrast between this desk and that of the professor. He imagined the inside of the professor’s head would resemble his untidy desk: a jumble of thoughts, stacked one on top of the other, ready to be blown about by the next cerebral tempest.
He heard a cursory rap upon the door and looked up to see not Sarah but Jarvis, who wordlessly handed him the first post before turning on a heel. Raven was about to put it aside for reading later when his eye was drawn by the unexpected profile of Friedrich Wilhelm of Prussia upon the stamp, and, upon a closer look, Henry’s handwriting.
He felt a strange sensation of longing and nostalgia for what already felt like simpler times, conscious of a distance that felt so much greater than the miles of the journey. He had such happy memories of his year abroad, learning and expanding his horizons with Henry. It had seemed a time of endless possibilities, when every day was new, and discovery lay around every corner. But what lay around one particular corner had soured everything, and its shadow fell upon him now as he realised that to have reached here so soon, Henry must have penned the letter perhaps only a day or so after Raven left. What could have occasioned such urgency? Nothing good, he would wager.
Raven opened the letter hurriedly, his eyes playing impatiently over the text as he skimmed past the polite enquiries after his health and the welfare of the Simpson household. His gaze alighted on the real reason for writing:
We had a visit from the Berlin police. A man was found dead the morning after we were attacked, in the very alley where I was shot. The police said he had a kerchief wrapped around his face, cov
ering all but the eyes, undoubtedly one of the same ne’er-do-wells.
Perhaps our assailants turned upon one another in their anger, or perhaps having been unsuccessful in their attempt to rob us, they set upon someone else and fared even worse. Certainly it appears that one of them encountered someone with an appetite for mayhem.
So Henry knew. Without saying as much, he was telling Raven he knew.
It seems one of our neighbours must have observed our unquiet ingress that night, noting my injury. After the uprising last year, sadly there are many locals who know a gunshot wound when they see one. They questioned myself and Liselotte, who informed them that you had bravely fought off our assailants.
I am curious, and I would admit troubled, as to why the police should be concerning themselves with the death of some itinerant brigand. I wondered if there was any light that you might shed upon the matter?
Raven most certainly could not, beyond the aspect that Henry had already deduced. Then he thought about the masks, the kerchiefs wrapped around their faces. He had assumed this was to prevent their being subsequently identified. But rather, could it have been to avoid being recognised?
He had killed a man whose face he never saw, but until now Raven had not thought to consider that he had a name. Henry did not know it, or he would have surely said, but it seemed likely the police did.
He put the letter down as the door opened, then hurriedly set it aside as Sarah walked in.
‘I need to speak to you,’ she said in a low voice, as though mindful of being overheard.
Raven was immediately wary. He had no desire to discuss anything pertaining to the relationship between them. If she was seeking to explain herself, then it was surely only so that she could feel better about what had happened, and he didn’t see how that would benefit him. He therefore saw no point in any further discourse upon the matter. She had decided to marry another man. He would have to accept it and move on, but that didn’t mean he had to offer her some form of absolution.
The Art of Dying Page 7
