More so than when I merely altered the ward journal, I marvelled at the effects of my actions. It appeared I had the ability to bend matters to my will simply by the administration of medicine. It created in me an ever-deeper curiosity, an insatiable thirst for greater knowledge.
I watched the doctors carefully. It seemed to please them that I was showing such a keen interest by asking them about dosages and the effects of the various pills and potions that they prescribed.
There was a limit to how much first-hand experience I was permitted, however, which was why I liked being on the ward at night. With the doctors largely absent and nurses sparsely spread about the hospital, I was free to experiment. I dosed patients with morphine in ever-increasing amounts and paid close attention to the results. I watched as their breathing slowed and their pupils shrunk in size.
The next station upon my journey was marked by a dock-labourer from Leith by the name of John Robertson. He sustained a burn to his upper chest on account of sleeping too close to the fire while under the influence of ardent spirits. The burn extended to the front of his neck and caused him to experience a restriction in his breathing, for which he was prescribed warm-water dressings and morphine three times a day. I gave it more frequently than that, watching as this brute of a man became drowsy and incapable.
In the midst of my experiment I was called away to assist another patient who had had a seizure, and when I returned, I found that Mr Robertson’s breathing had stopped altogether, and he was quite dead.
I did not mean to kill him. But nor did I have any regrets about having done so. Rather, I felt powerful that I had wrought this. A man so mighty, felled by my small hand.
That sense of power only increased the next day when his newly widowed wife came to claim his remains. I watched her weep and wail, this gushing, uncontainable outpouring of grief. A drastic change had been wrought upon not one but two people: one life ended, the other altered for ever, and all of it precipitated by actions that were unknown and unsuspected.
I felt like I wanted to hold Mrs Robertson, as I had been held when I was taken into the bed alongside my mother in her sorrow at losing each of her sons. On those nights, though I was sad to see my mother in such torment, part of me was grateful for what had happened, because it had given rise to this tenderness. Such affection was otherwise not permitted by my father. He did not like it when she coddled us.
As I had experienced before, something in Mrs Robertson’s grief gratified me.
FORTY-SIX
aven was woken by a knock on the door, coming to with a start as he heard his name spoken by a female voice. It was one of the new maids. He bid her come in, by way of letting her know he was awake.
She stuck her head around the door tentatively. He noted the contrast between her shyness and the liberties Sarah used to take when she held the same position.
‘I was sent to enquire as to why you are still in bed. You have missed breakfast.’
Raven reached for his pocket watch to confirm this, though the girl would have no reason to misinform. He had indeed overslept. He had been very late in returning from Flint’s place in Fountainbridge the night before, and it had taken him a long time to fall asleep as he considered the implications of his course of action.
He quickly pulled on some clothes, concerned at the prospect of facing the rigours of a morning clinic without so much as a bite of toast to fuel him. He just hoped Mrs Lyndsay was not in an obstreperous mood.
He was descending the stairs hurriedly when he heard a familiar voice rising from the hall below. It was the northern Irish accent that made it unmistakable, though the gruff confidence was distinctive also. The mere sound of it pricked the hairs on his head and urged him to spin on a heel, but it was too late. His approach had been seen, and such a volte-face would be conspicuous in precisely the way he wished to avoid.
It was not wise to invite the suspicion of James McLevy, the city’s foremost policeman. The detective prided himself on solving all of his cases, by which he meant seeing someone convicted for every crime he investigated. He was also concerned with the recovery of stolen property, an activity for which he had a less complete success rate. There were those who believed a failure to locate that which was stolen ought to cast some doubt on the guilt of whoever was apprehended for stealing it, but McLevy was more sanguine about such discrepancies.
Raven knew there were very few people in prison who would claim other than that they were wrongly accused, but he had heard enough tales in the Old Town to make him extremely wary of McLevy’s methods and the power he wielded. And whether the property he did recover ever ended up back in the possession of those from whom it had been stolen was a matter of further conjecture.
The detective was standing in the reception hall, wrapped in his familiar black frock-coat and top hat, flanked by one of his men and speaking with Dr Simpson. Raven caught a whiff of alcohol coming from both the policemen before he had reached the foot of the stairs. The staleness of it suggested they had only stopped drinking a few hours ago, most likely having been in a tavern after concluding a late night’s work.
‘Ah, here he comes now, though not looking his most sprightly,’ Simpson said. ‘You remember Will, don’t you?’ he asked McLevy.
Raven was rather hoping McLevy didn’t.
‘Indeed. I recall you took a keen interest in that unfortunate business down in Leith. I am hoping you might be able to assist me.’
This came as something of a relief, as a less rational impulse had Raven fearing the man might be here on behalf of his counterparts in Berlin.
‘I have been telling Mr McLevy about your position at the Maternity Hospital,’ Simpson said. ‘He has a question for you.’
Raven observed that the professor was full of outward bonhomie, but he had been around the man long enough to know when it was merely a show. Simpson had always been friendly and cooperative with McLevy, advising Raven that it was useful to have such a man owing one favours. Raven saw the wisdom of it, but that was easier for someone like Simpson to say, as he could expect the ledger to be accurately kept, and a debt of favours honoured.
‘I gather you were working there yesterday,’ McLevy said. ‘Did you have to deal with any unusual patients?’
‘Well, there was one woman with obstructed labour, which gave me no end of difficulties, but I can’t see how that might be a matter for the police.’
‘I was thinking more unusual in terms of being the wrong sex. We are enquiring at all hospitals and among doctors in the city as to whether they were asked to treat a patient yesterday who was shot.’
Raven hoped his involuntary look of discomfort was interpreted as mere shock at hearing about such an incident.
‘Shot? That certainly would have been unusual. To my knowledge no one has ever presented at the Maternity Hospital with a gunshot wound. What happened?’
‘An unfortunate consequence of Dr Simpson’s famous discovery,’ McLevy said. ‘A gang of masked men robbed a carriage on its way north from Berwick. They surprised the guards and attempted to subdue them by the highly unusual – and as it turns out highly ineffective – method of holding cloths to their faces. The cloths were discarded at the scene and when recovered still retained the characteristic smell of chloroform.’
Now there could be no question McLevy was talking about Flint’s men. This had been what he wanted the chloroform for. The arrogant fool must have assumed Raven’s warnings were mere bluster. Now he knew otherwise, and to what cost.
‘The cloths failing to have the effect this crew presumably imagined, there ensued a struggle, during which one of the coach guards discharged his weapon.’
‘And what of the guards themselves?’ Raven asked, concerned as to how grave this crime might be to which he was now connected. ‘Were they injured too?’
‘They were beaten and bound, but they will recover. My concern is with what was taken. If I discover who was shot, it ought to be enough to lead me to the goods.’
This was why Flint had brought Raven in. They could not take the Weasel to another doctor, for fear word of the injury might spread and thus betray them.
‘What did they take?’ Raven asked.
‘A strongbox being transported to the Exchange. It contained certificates of stock holdings.’
‘What use are such documents?’ asked Simpson. ‘They bear the owner’s name, do they not?’
‘They bore no name as yet: that is why they were targeted. They were being transported from a printing works in Newcastle ahead of a stock offering. With the aid of a talented enough – and corrupt enough – calligrapher, they could be rendered indistinguishable from legitimate documents.’
‘I do hope my Mr Quinton isn’t eavesdropping,’ Simpson said, ‘or I will have to offer him a raise in order to keep him from temptation.’
Raven laughed, though he was barely listening. He had only asked the question in order to appear natural and to conceal the turmoil going on inside his head.
If he told McLevy what he knew, it would surely rid him of Flint for ever. But no sooner had this possibility opened before him than he saw that it was not so simple. Flint was too clever to keep the stolen goods anywhere that could be tied to him. That was probably where he had gone last night when Gargantua responded so anxiously to Raven’s question as to Flint’s whereabouts.
Furthermore, they would surely have disposed of the Weasel’s remains by now. There would be no evidence, but were the police to come enquiring, Flint would know who had pointed them there. And there would be repercussions. Reprisals. Much worse than anything he had experienced before.
He was also conflicted by the humanity he had witnessed from Gargantua, and from Flint for that matter. The moment he was shot, Alec had become a liability: a millstone that would drag Flint down. Raven had thought of Flint as entirely ruthless, but if that were true, he would have finished Alec off and disposed of his body, never to be found. Instead they had endeavoured to save him, not knowing it was hopeless.
McLevy fixed Raven with his penetrating stare.
‘You are quite sure you did not treat such an injury yesterday?’
‘I think it would have stood out in my memory,’ Raven replied, hoping the casual nature of his answer served to cover its falsity. Also, he had technically not yet lied outright.
‘In truth it is as well,’ said Dr Simpson.
‘How so?’ McLevy asked, picking up on the gravity of his tone.
‘There is a bond of trust between doctor and patient. If an injured man, even a criminal, knew his physician might tell the police about injuries that would put him under suspicion, it could discourage him from seeking medical help. He might die, though death is not the sentence for his crime.’
McLevy’s face twisted into a parody of compassion.
‘Criminals dropping dead as a result of their misadventures,’ he said. ‘Aye, what a tragic loss to all of us that would be.’
FORTY-SEVEN
arah stood outside the main entrance to the Infirmary, the imposing scale of the building prompting second thoughts about the wisdom of pursuing this solo investigation. She recalled how it had gone when she attempted to question Dr Johnstone and did not welcome the prospect of being vehemently rebuffed again. She was growing weary of being dismissed and had at least, on this occasion, obtained an appointment rather than arriving unannounced. Miss Peat, the matron, had agreed to see her, though Sarah had been vague about the reason for the interview.
She had considered asking Dr Simpson to vouch for her, as he had recently been appointed as physician to the hospital, but that would have required divulging the reason for her visit. She and Raven had thus far managed to keep their investigations from him, though their relationship had not entirely escaped notice.
Quinton had intruded upon them when Raven was comforting her, which might have meant little to him in isolation. However, it transpired that he had witnessed them together again in the immediate aftermath of Mrs Glassford’s post-mortem examination, both being too caught up in discussion of what they had seen to notice when he stuck his head around the door. Quinton had made a remark this morning about the time she was spending in Raven’s company, as though there was something improper in what they were about. Sarah had dissembled rather than rebuke the man for his impertinence, having no wish to make an enemy of him.
She felt slighted, but it had served as a timely warning. She regarded her behaviour as beyond reproach, and yet it was enough to make Quinton feel he had the right to pass comment. What might the consequences be if she dared do something that was actually reckless or radical?
Looking at the size of the place, it was easy to envisage herself wandering the corridors of the Infirmary, getting lost. She decided to head first to the porter’s lodge to ask for directions.
The porter was a squat man with heavy whiskers, loquacious in his response to her enquiry, supplying more information than she required.
‘Miss Peat. Lovely woman,’ he said. ‘Very good at her job as far as I can make out. Not that it’s made easy for her.’
Sarah made no reply, which he took as reason enough to continue. She quickly got the impression he liked to talk and was starved of much opportunity to do so.
‘Between you and me,’ he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, although there was no one in the vicinity to overhear, ‘the resident doctors try her patience. Complain about the food, destroy hospital property in a wanton manner, use improper language. It has got to the point that she refuses to sit at the dinner table with them.’
Sarah opened her mouth to ask, again, where she might find this poor woman, but the porter had more to say.
‘The chaplain and the treasurer won’t sup with them either. Supposed to be gentlemen but doesn’t sound like the behaviour of gentlemen to me.’
Sarah was beginning to think she would have found Miss Peat’s office herself by this point, but she saw an ally to be had, for the cost of merely listening awhile.
‘Such behaviour sounds truly brutish,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should be training young ladies to be doctors instead.’
The porter gaped, momentarily confused, then let out a great belly laugh at what he assumed to be her joke.
‘Young ladies,’ he repeated, wiping his eyes. ‘Most amusing. Anyway, my apologies, but I’ve quite forgotten what you asked me.’
‘Miss Peat?’ she reminded him, smiling. ‘I do not wish to keep her waiting.’
‘Of course, of course.’
The directions, when they came, were straightforward enough: through the main door, turn left, end of the corridor.
Sarah marched up the curved driveway, the towering edifice now surrounding her on three sides. It accommodated some two hundred souls in various states of disrepair, while the surgical hospital contained a hundred more. She was grateful that she had never had to enter either part as a patient. ‘Once you go in, you never come out,’ was the prevailing wisdom. She had at one time considered seeking employment as a nurse here, but Dr Simpson had dissuaded her. She would be left to empty bedpans and scrub floors, he said. She would be better employed at Queen Street. As she was a housemaid at that point, she had been dubious about this, but time had since proven him right.
She walked through the main door into the entrance hall, its grand staircase built wide enough to accommodate street chairs bearing the ill and the injured. It was beginning to show signs of its age in places but was clean and reasonably well maintained. ‘The want of cleanliness is a fault that admits of no excuse,’ her mother had been fond of saying, and it appeared Miss Peat shared this view.
Sarah had once asked Raven about the position of matron, wondering if it might be a suitable occupation for her to aspire to, but he had been dismissive. He had told her that a prerequisite of the job was being an unmarried woman or a widow with no dependents. This stipulation had been made after a previous incumbent and her daughter made off with several items of hospital furniture and four d
ish-covers purchased from Sibbald’s.
Sarah wondered how long would pass between the events that would make her eligible and then subsequently disqualify her.
She found the matron’s room at the end of the ground-floor corridor and paused before knocking. She straightened her coat and hat, hoping to present herself in the best possible light.
‘Come in.’
The voice sounded calm and even-tempered. She had braced herself for something more aggressive and hoped that her subsequent questions would not provoke the woman she was about to meet.
Sarah opened the door and entered the room. Miss Peat looked surprised to see her.
‘Oh. I was expecting Mrs Chilvers from the laundry.’
Miss Peat was sitting at a desk, a leather-bound ledger open in front of her. She was a woman of indeterminate age, wearing a grey cotton dress, a white apron and a cap. She had a long, thin nose, at the end of which sat a pair of spectacles.
‘I am Mrs Banks. We have an appointment.’
‘Yes, of course. Mrs Banks. Do sit.’ She indicated an armchair by the fire. ‘You are seeking employment, I presume?’
‘No. I am an assistant to Dr Simpson. I have come at his behest. An urgent matter.’ Sarah felt her cheeks flush at this glaring falsehood. She hoped the matron would not notice.
‘Assistant? To Dr Simpson? How unusual.’
Sarah wondered if she was going to be questioned further – about her claim to be the professor’s employee or why the doctor had seen fit to send her – but Miss Peat merely waited for her to be seated and then offered her a cup of tea.
Sarah declined the refreshment but took it to be a favourable sign. Miss Peat manoeuvred herself out from behind her desk, poured herself a cup from a large brown enamel teapot and sat down in a chair opposite. She took a sip of her tea and waited for Sarah to speak.
Sarah wondered where to start and decided it might be prudent to keep the details of her quest to a minimum.
The Art of Dying Page 21
