When both his work and that of the leeches was done, he stood and indicated that they should all now leave the child in peace. Outside the bedroom door, he whispered something to the mother, handed her a prescription and then began making his way down the corridor.
Simpson halted suddenly and sniffed. Raven was momentarily confused by this until the aroma which had stopped the doctor in his tracks met his own nose, now happily defrosted.
‘I smell toffee,’ said Simpson.
The mother looked alarmed for a moment, as though the making of such confectionery would be frowned upon when there was a sick child in the house.
‘It’s for Christmas,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘I like to plan ahead.’
‘Just so,’ said Dr Simpson, smiling approvingly. ‘I love toffee. Toffee’s very wholesome.’
When Dr Simpson and Raven left the house, they carried with them several fat, satiated leeches and an abundance of toffee wrapped in paper. Almost as soon as they were ensconced in the carriage, Simpson unwrapped one of the paper parcels and offered Raven a piece.
‘Thank you, no,’ Raven said. ‘I have a painful tooth.’
‘You should have that attended to,’ Simpson suggested.
Raven was about to say that his work commitments left precious little time for such things but thought the better of it. He did not wish to seem disagreeable or lacking in gratitude, especially when the professor’s own workload appeared to be wearing him down.
‘Does it pain you now?’ Dr Simpson asked.
‘Yes,’ said Raven, putting his hand to his jaw. ‘It kept me awake for much of the night.’
Simpson stuck his head out of the carriage window and called for Angus, his coachman, to stop. He then gave the man directions that Raven could not hear. A few minutes later the carriage turned from the main road onto a side street lined with a small row of shops.
Raven looked out and saw that they had drawn up outside a druggists’.
‘Why have we stopped here?’
‘A small amount of chloroform on a piece of lint applied directly to your troublesome tooth will provide relief until you see a dentist,’ Simpson said, getting down from the carriage. ‘Unfortunately, I have none in my bag.’
Raven was about to object that there was no need, but the throbbing in his jaw said otherwise. He was bemused, however, by Simpson continuing to suggest chloroform for every ailment. If he persisted, he would begin to look like a snake-oil salesman brandishing a cure-all. If he ever proposed its use as a treatment for baldness Raven would be compelled to intervene.
Somewhere gloomy in the back of his mind, he thought about the bottle he had been forced to supply to Flint, and worried what the money-lender and his crew of reprobates planned to do with it. It did not lessen Raven’s guilt that he had been left with little choice but to acquiesce, though he did console himself with the truth of what he had told the man: chloroform would not do for them what they hoped it could – but that had not prevented misconceptions flooding the newspapers, and pharmacists regulating their supplies accordingly.
They entered the shop to find a small woman with grey hair vigorously scrubbing down the counter. Her shop was well-stocked and neatly kept, not so much as a jar out of alignment with its neighbour. The woman looked up at them and scowled, as though customers were a great inconvenience.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ she asked, putting down her cloth and wiping her hands on her apron.
‘I would like to purchase a bottle of chloroform,’ Dr Simpson said, giving her his warmest smile.
It failed to have its usual effect. The woman sucked air in through her teeth and shook her head.
‘I don’t think I can help you,’ she said. ‘We don’t sell it to them that kens nothing aboot it.’
TWENTY-ONE
he was not prone to such feelings, but Sarah was experiencing a profound discomfort about her surroundings. It was as though the chamber she found herself sitting in seemed to be closing in around her; or, even more disturbingly, that she was growing larger and all the more conspicuous within it. It was a small parlour dominated by a marble fireplace that was too big for the size of the room. There was also a surfeit of furniture: armchairs, tables, an elaborately decorated armoire, planters and plant pots. The curtains were closed and the mirror above the fireplace was draped in black crepe. The clock on the mantelpiece was stopped. Either the maid had failed to wind it, or it had been deliberately left that way to commemorate the hour of Mrs Johnstone’s death. Were it the latter, then it was a strange custom for a medical man to observe.
Anxiety was beginning to contribute to her sense of slow suffocation. Perhaps she should not have come. The housemaid had looked at her askance when she had asked to see Dr Johnstone, thinking that she was a patient. She had assured the girl that she was not but had some difficulty explaining the reason for her visit. A private matter, she had said.
She was belatedly coming to appreciate that there was a form of safety in playing the restricted role of a maid or some other menial. Married or not, to present yourself as an independent woman on business of your own volition was to place yourself outside the protection of certain structures, and it was making her feel vulnerable.
Her mind turned to Will Raven and his refusal to assist her. She was surprised at his lack of concern for Dr Simpson, his reluctance to come to his mentor’s defence. He seemed to have forgotten all that the doctor had done for him: taking him on as an apprentice, accommodating him under his roof, nurturing his talent; to say nothing of believing that he had talent in the first place.
Despite his outburst, she did not think Raven believed he had outgrown Dr Simpson, and that a year abroad had rendered further instruction superfluous. The professor was fond of saying that the medical practitioner should never cease to be the medical student, that professional distinction was dependent upon continuously extending knowledge by constant observation, reflection and reading. Raven would be quick to agree with Simpson that we are all works in progress, forever incomplete. He would not have taken on the role of assistant otherwise. Why, she wondered, was he therefore so reluctant to show loyalty to someone he apparently esteemed?
And thus, she happened upon the answer.
His indifference towards the professor was a mere proxy for the lack of loyalty he believed had been shown him. His disaffection was not with Dr Simpson: he was angry with her.
But why? For marrying someone else in his absence? He had no right to feel there had been any kind of disloyalty involved. He had left her in no doubt that he saw no future for them beyond simple friendship, and even indicated that that might not be appropriate once he was a practitioner in his own right. He had been, and still was, too concerned with the appearance of things and the possible repercussions for his standing.
Reputation. Character. These were currency in society. As a woman she was just as constrained by them as he was; possibly more so. But to her mind that did not excuse his lack of concern for Simpson and his refusal to help clear the doctor’s name.
The door opened, and Dr Johnstone came in. He had the look of a bloodhound about him: reddened eyes, droopy eyelids and the flesh of his jowls hanging loosely about his starched collar. He might have looked comical or at least benign had he been smiling. But he wasn’t, for why would he?
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, demanded: ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’
Sarah was aware that it was only a few short weeks since his wife had died. A lack of civility was to be forgiven.
‘My name is Mrs Banks.’
Her married name still sounded strange to her when she said it aloud, but, on this occasion, she thought that it might help lend her a degree of gravitas and respectability.
‘Young lady, you have not answered my question.’
‘I work for Dr Simpson.’
‘In what capacity?’
Sarah wished, not for the first time, that she had some
form of official title to explain what she did.
‘I help with the patients.’
‘I see.’ It didn’t sound like he did. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Accusations have been made about Dr Simpson.’
‘Accusations?’
‘Yes. That he was in some way responsible for your wife’s death.’
Dr Johnstone drew in a deep breath. His brow furrowed and he began to look thunderous. The bloodhound was transforming into an attack dog.
She hurried on.
‘I do not believe that, of course. That is why I’m here. I wish to try and establish the truth of the matter and put an end to hurtful speculation.’
‘Is Dr Simpson aware that you have come here?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And what makes you think you have any right to ask questions on his behalf? Under other circumstances I would laugh. But I don’t much feel like laughing.’
He was glowering at her. Sarah stood up and started backing towards the door.
‘I am seeking to pursue this under the utmost discretion,’ she told him, her voice faltering.
‘Your presumption defies belief. As if I would discuss the death of my wife with you. Someone entirely unknown to me. A woman.’
‘I am sorry. It was not my intention to upset you or cause offence,’ she said.
‘Well, it very much seems that you have. Good day to you, Mrs Banks. You can see yourself out.’
TWENTY-TWO
aven was finally ushering what he fervently hoped to be the last patient back into the hallway when the front doorbell rang. Dr Simpson was away, having agreed to make a visit to Hamilton Palace in Lanarkshire. Raven marvelled at Dr Simpson’s ability to mix as comfortably with the aristocracy as he did with the fishwives of Newhaven. He had once described the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland and their daughter Lady Blantyre as ‘good loveable plain folks’, though given his subsequent description of Stafford House, with its marble pillars, enormous mirrors and walls and ceilings inlaid with gold, Raven found that he was disinclined to believe him.
Dr Simpson’s absence had left them short-handed (and Raven short-tempered, still suffering as he was from intractable toothache) on what proved to be a particularly busy morning, and the clinic had over-run into the brief time he had for lunch before he was due to head out to the Maternity Hospital. He and Sarah shared a look at the sound of the bell, acknowledging that it appeared this interminable trial was not yet at an end. It was the only time this morning that their feelings had been in concert.
Sarah had made a point of telling him how badly her enquiries were faring, as though this was consequently his fault. She had gone to see Dr Johnstone and apparently been given short shrift.
‘This is why I did not think it a wise course,’ Raven had replied. ‘The list of people likely to be antagonised by your enquiries only begins with Dr Johnstone.’
This had not gone over well.
‘I might have made some progress had I been in the company of a doctor,’ she insisted. ‘Or at least a man.’
‘Then in that case I am obliged to wonder why you did not engage the assistance of your husband.’
All exchanges between them thereafter had been chilly but professional, a cursory civility dictated by the needs of the clinic. Was this how it was going to be now?
Raven heard Jarvis open the door and explain to whoever had petitioned that Dr Simpson was not at home. ‘Perhaps Dr Raven might be able to assist,’ Jarvis suggested, his tone intending to discourage further enquiry. He might well have added, ‘Or perhaps Glen, Dr Simpson’s dog?’
Nevertheless, Raven heard a voice mutter: ‘Very well, that will have to do.’
Raven stuck his head around the door in time to see a rather odd little man step into the hallway.
He was dressed in a suit that was no doubt once well made, but appeared to have served decades of wear. The buttons on his waistcoat strained to hold back a protuberant belly before what was otherwise a skinny frame, and Raven was uncomfortably reminded of Mrs Glassford for a moment.
‘I am Dr Fowler,’ he said. ‘I was having difficulties with a patient and I hoped I might trouble Dr Simpson for his judgment. I gather he is from home.’
‘As must I be very soon,’ Raven tried to explain. ‘I was just about to leave. Our morning clinic has over-run and I am bound for Milton House.’
‘Then our purposes coincide. My patient is in Broughton Street. It will not be such a great detour for you.’
Raven suppressed a sigh, thinking of how Dr Simpson would respond were he here.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will be with you presently.’
Raven hoped Dr Fowler’s command of matters medical proved better than his grasp of geography, Broughton Street being in utterly the opposite direction from Milton House. He calculated that this necessary detour would come at the cost of having any lunch at all if he was to be in time for his work with Dr Ziegler. He therefore made his own minor diversion to the kitchen to grab a bread roll for the road. Mrs Lyndsay’s admonition was ringing in his ears as he left, prompting him to think that no good deed ever went unpunished.
It was a sentiment that returned to his mind a short time later as he stood at the end of the bed, contemplating Dr Fowler’s patient. They were in a room denuded of all furniture save the bed and a solitary chair.
‘The nurse who has been helping the family has a very strict policy about the management of the sick room,’ the doctor explained.
Dr Fowler had said little on the walk along Queen Street, save for occasionally muttering about a ‘terrible loss’, which made Raven wonder how dire the situation was that awaited him. Raven had suggested hailing a hansom cab as his time was limited, but Dr Fowler objected to this extravagance. It was not a great distance, he said, and was therefore a journey best made on foot. The worn condition of Dr Fowler’s footwear suggested to Raven that this was his primary mode of conveyance and reminded him that not all medical practitioners enjoyed the patronage of wealthy clients.
As it turned out, it was not an obstetric case that Dr Fowler was having trouble with, but this was not a surprise. Although Dr Simpson was a physician with a special interest in midwifery and the medical disorders of women and children, he was known to be a skilled diagnostician and his opinion was frequently sought by those dealing with cases outside this purview.
This patient was not even a woman. After spending a short time with him, it was one of the few clinical observations Raven would have trusted Dr Fowler to get right.
Raven stood with his arms folded and tried to think. Something was amiss, but he was struggling to identify what that something might be.
The patient’s name was George Porteous. He was a young man with pale skin and a full head of red hair. He was lean but not thin, someone who had been well nourished. He looked to be in good health apart from the fact that he was soporous and could not be roused.
‘He has been like this for two days,’ Dr Fowler said. ‘But at least the twitching has stopped.’
‘The twitching?’
‘Yes. Of the facial muscles. He was delirious for a while, muttering and clutching at the bed clothes.’
‘You mean convulsions?’
‘No, I would not say convulsions.’
‘Any fever?’
‘No fever. The pulse was elevated initially but not now.’
Raven approached the bed and laid a hand on the patient’s forehead. It was warm, not hot, and free from perspiration. He gently lifted each eyelid in turn and found both pupils were normal in size. The patient’s breathing was shallow, so shallow that Raven had to put his ear to the patient’s chest to confirm that it had not ceased altogether.
‘Is he a drinker?’ Raven asked, although he thought it an unlikely explanation as there was no smell of alcohol.
‘Not according to his sister.’
‘Did he complain of any other symptoms? Headache, giddiness or palsy?’
‘No. As far
as I am aware, he experienced no unusual symptoms except for fatigue. He took to his bed and was then found by his sister to be at first delirious and then as you see him now.’
Raven had to admit to himself that he was mystified.
‘I applied leeches,’ Dr Fowler said, ‘but rather curiously they all fell off and died. I did manage to bleed the patient, though,’ he added, indicating a bleeding bowl on the floor next to the bed. ‘Several ounces, but to no avail. My next suggestion was going to be a clyster to purge the bowels.’
Raven might have been at odds with Simpson on certain matters, but he was wholeheartedly in agreement about the limited usefulness of bleeding and purging.
‘I think perhaps he has been drained of enough,’ he said.
They opted to continue their discussion out of earshot of the patient, though he did not appear likely to hear much in his current state. Raven followed Dr Fowler into the hallway, a dark passage lit only by a small window into which little light was admitted due to the height of the buildings opposite.
‘It is most perplexing,’ Dr Fowler said. ‘A young man, previously in good health. Clean living. Recently bereaved, poor soul.’
‘Bereaved?’
‘Yes, his mother died just last week. Heart failure.’ Dr Fowler shook his head sympathetically. ‘They say that a person may die of grief. Do you think that is so?’
Raven tried to keep a growing incredulity from his voice.
‘Surely that would be a diagnosis of exclusion. There are many other possibilities to be ruled out before entertaining such a thing.’
‘Perhaps they removed his mother’s body head first,’ Dr Fowler suggested.
‘What do you mean?’
‘A corpse should always be removed from the house feet first lest it beckon others to follow.’
Raven looked askance at the man.
‘Did you, by any chance, obtain your medical degree from St Andrews?’
The Art of Dying Page 9
