“…It appears my trust in the reputed progressiveness of your country’s surgery has been misplaced, seeing as dissection of the dead is all but taboo here. We have abolished the archaic practice of bloodletting entirely, yet your knowledge of Physick is a century behind ours…” said one of the figures in an irate, feminine voice. She spoke fluently, but with a thick accent. “…do you not agree that one corpse might benefit a dozen living patients?” The speaker wore a foreign belted tunic-like dress and had gathered her hair in an unruly bundle at the back of her head. Roger remembered a Khalishkan girl from one of the cookshops on Goatmonger Street with that same striking staccato to her voice. “…Then of all we’ve discussed, to reach consensus on that single item is better than none at all.”
The second individual, presumably Dr Lundfrigg, listened to this diatribe while tapping a cane against his leg, muttering about “poisonous powders” and “Khalishkan snake-oil.”
The woman flicked her gloved hand dismissively and turned to leave. For a moment her eyes locked with Roger’s, and the brunt of her displeasure transferred onto him.
“Is this another Myrcnian bloodletter come to lecture me?” she snarled as Roger sidestepped from her path and bowed. “I do carry my own ammonia carbonate. Should I faint from the exertion of leaving your little boys’ club, please do not fret. I shall happily revive myself. Good day, sir.” She disappeared into the corridor, leaving a faint whiff of carbolic powder.
“And you are?” Sir Finch S Lundfrigg, MD looked Roger up and down, but did not extend a hand. Though not young, Dr Lundfrigg appeared sprightly compared to the wizened Dr Eldridge, and he quivered with the energy of a coiled spring. He sported the dandiest pastel suit Roger had ever seen and must have been a hit with the tailors on Amanita Row. A small shield-shaped pin with a purple sunburst adorned his lapel – the only visible indication of his knighthood.
“Roger Starkley at your service, Sir Finch,” he said with as deep and graceful a bow as he’d ever accomplished without falling over. “You do me much honor, invitin’ me.”
Dr Lundfrigg winced at Roger’s unpolished accent. “There must be a mistake. I was led to believe that Roger Starkley was the brother of Captain Harrod Starkley, and a medical man, but I can hear for myself that is not the case.”
The words stung like a slap, but Roger hadn’t come all this way to be dismissed out of hand. Words tumbled from his mouth as he stood wringing his hat, his head awkwardly bowed.
“It’s true that I’m no proper gentleman, sir, nor surgeon neither. But if you ever stuck your nose into the lecture hall at Eldridge’s college, you’ve seen my handiwork on the slab. I were the dissectionist for the recent course on circulation – the guest lecturer praised my scalpel work. I flayed and waxed an arm for him after, to add to his personal collection.”
“I attended that lecture,” said Dr Lundfrigg after a thoughtful pause. “I do recall a lovely specimen with the arteries dyed red and the veins blue. Solid workmanship indeed. What is your method?”
Roger’s voice quavered. “I use an injection needle fixed by tubes to a water-pump operated with a foot pedal. I flush the blood vessels with hot water and prepare my wax with artists’ pigment. Cobalt and rose madder work best.”
“Your suturing, too,” continued Dr Lundfrigg, “was as tight and neat as any practitioner’s on Mouthstreet. But I suppose you can’t scrape up the surgeoning fees. Dr Eldridge is notoriously tight-fisted.”
Roger took a breath. It was now or never. “Truth is, sir, I quit him. He never paid me what I was worth. Now that we’ve had a falling out, I can’t go back to Mouthstreet. But if an honest man like yourself might give me a chance, sir, I’ve brought with me–”
Dr Lundfrigg held up a hand. Roger fell silent and bowed again, certain his gamble had failed. Yet when he looked up, Dr Lundfrigg had extended his arm, flashing a perfect porcelain smile.
“Please, we’re all men of science here.” He squeezed Roger’s hand with strong surgeon’s fingers. “You may dispense with the ‘yes sir, no sir.’ ‘Dr Lundfrigg’ will do. Within these walls, I prefer to be known by my profession.” He motioned Roger to a nearby chair.
“I… Thank you, doctor.” Roger sat on the edge of the cushion and folded his hands on his hat. He focused on keeping his tapping foot still.
“Please don’t mistake my intentions.” Dr Lundfrigg seated himself opposite Roger. “I understand you have read my work in The Speculum and would care to present an interesting medical case. What do you think of hematology?” He paused, as if testing Roger’s comprehension.
“I find blood fascinating myself, sir… ah, doctor,” said Roger, hating how eager he sounded. “Some days ago I were witness to a puzzling disease of the blood. Perhaps I could ask you a few questions about a curious case–”
The doctor slapped the arm of his chair. “Ah, but I haven’t anything to drink. There’s a decanter of whiskey on the sideboard. Aifric single malt. Do pour me a tumbler, young man. And why not have a jot yourself, for your pains.”
Roger splashed the amber liquid into cut-crystal glasses.
“Before you regale me with your ‘curious case,’ allow me to make a few educated guesses,” said Dr Lundfrigg as he accepted a glass. “First, you tried to treat some ‘poor widow’ without a license, and second, that the poor widow is actually a whore. Perhaps you’re even in love with her. How many did I get right?”
Roger stared at his own glass. This was not going as smoothly as he’d hoped. “Please admit her to your ward, doctor. That’s all I ask.”
“I suppose you’ve come to me grasping at straws, now that you’ve exhausted all your own medical ‘tricks’ to help this suffering doxy.”
Roger nearly sloshed whiskey in his lap. “That would be illegal, now wouldn’t it?”
“In the eyes of the law, yes. But there are no secrets at the Anathema Club. We men of science take care of our own. What kind of medicine have you practiced?”
Roger drained his tumbler in several gulps. The whiskey was a far cry from Nail’s preservative spirits with its notes of pinesap, oranges, even nutmeg.
“Nothing like real surgery. I bled a few chaps: students, an undertaker’s apprentice with the grippe – just practice. I pull teeth. All my patients recovered, and I weren’t paid for it. I work with stiffs mostly, but I knows them inside and out.”
“I see.” Dr Lundfrigg held out his glass for Roger to refill. “You’re no stranger to the lancet. Then perhaps a demonstration.” He opened a little case containing linen strips, vials, and a thumb-sized folding blade.
“Might I ask why, sir?” Roger’s heart sank. Dr Lundfrigg couldn’t even spare a breath for Celeste.
Dr Lundfrigg stopped short and his mouth twitched into a smile. “Because I like you. Now bare your arm and come here by me.”
Roger removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeve, despite Dr Lundfrigg’s condescending tone. He crouched and balanced his outstretched arm on his knee.
Dr Lundfrigg bound a linen strip above his elbow as a tourniquet. “A surgeon’s worth is in how he holds the blade.” He handed Roger the thumb-lancet. “Just enough to fill a vial halfway, then.”
Roger made a fist and found a suitable vein. After setting his empty glass on the floor, he nicked his skin in one deft movement. The pain was sharp and brief, and a bright red stream spurted into the whiskey glass below.
“Not bad, eh, doctor?” Roger lifted the glass to his arm so the blood wouldn’t spatter. Dr Lundfrigg’s impressed half-smile sent an energetic jolt through him, and for a moment he forgot he was an anointed Straybound. “You could use a surgeon’s assistant in one of your hospitals, no? I could wash down the slabs and rinse the tools, or–”
“By the Merciful Mother, I don’t need that much blood. Put a compress on it before you stain the carpet.” The doctor slapped a folded linen square on Roger’s arm.
While Roger bandaged himself, Dr Lundfrigg poured blood from the glass into his vial. Then he
added a few drops of some solution and observed it closely. “Your blood looks bright and healthy, and perfectly ordinary. You can’t ask for more than that.” Then he lifted the crystal glass to the light and swirled the remaining blood. “Tell you what, lad. If you toast her royal majesty and drain this glass, I’ll try you out for a job.”
Roger shuddered, certain Dr Lundfrigg must have seen the revulsion on his face. He regained his composure with a breath and met the other man’s eyes. “You serious?”
“As an aneurism.”
Roger took the glass and eyed the half an inch of blood at the bottom. He could never swallow it. Could he? He might bluff, at least. Thumping his chest with one hand, he raised the glass. “To her majesty.”
Just as the crystal met his lips, Dr Lundfrigg caught his wrist.
“I’ll give you a try, Mr Starkley. For a day. I just wanted to see how badly you wanted that job.”
Roger smiled weakly. “Doctor, that case I wrote you about–”
“Here.” Dr Lundfrigg pressed a fresh glass of whiskey into his hand. “That should settle your stomach. Sit.”
Roger obeyed, letting the alcohol scorch his throat. “You said my blood were healthy. But suppose it were dark, and sluggish like treacle. What sort of malady might that be?”
“It could be any number of things. Perhaps there’s a buildup of impurities in the bloodstream, or tumors within the body. I take it you bled your doxy friend?”
Roger nodded.
“Then there is little more you could have done.”
“There must be something. Won’t you at least admit her to hospital?”
“There is no point, my lad, even if the queen’s law didn’t forbid it. Based on this evidence, she’s at death’s door. Remember that a physician is not a magician, and neither are you. But as nature’s mysteries reveal themselves, someday we may reclaim the human body from sickness, if not death.”
Roger wouldn’t win Dr Lundfrigg over with words so he pulled his gin flask containing Celeste’s blood from his coat pocket. He downed his whiskey, then poured Celeste’s blood into the glass, still as dark and treacly as when he’d collected it. Dr Lundfrigg leaned forward with interest.
“Take a look, sir.”
The doctor swirled the glass. “This is your doxy’s blood?”
Roger nodded. “Curious, no?”
Dr Lundfrigg brought the glass to the edge of his nose, and as though testing a fine wine, took a long whiff. Roger hadn’t thought to smell the blood.
“Very distinct. I’d like to keep this for further tests. I’ll admit you’ve intrigued me, Mr Starkley, if that is your true name. Had I not known better, I’d have mistaken you for a surgeon after all.”
Roger grinned.
“Tell me, what exactly is your true relationship to Captain Starkley?”
“I’m his lackey, sir.” Unused to the heavy drink, Roger’s thoughts had begun to ripple and blur, as if filtered through ancient glass.
The doctor laughed. “Well, that explains that. Now, about the job. Is tomorrow too early? If I like what I see, I’ll consider hiring you full time. Will you be available?”
No, in two days he’d become Straybound to a princess. On the other hand, he had nothing to lose. And he might still convince Dr Lundfrigg to take on Celeste.
Roger nodded. “If I might have a note in your handwriting, my master won’t detain me.”
“Then it’s settled. I shall see you at St Colthorpe’s at eight tomorrow morning.” He scribbled on a scrap of paper and handed it over.
“I’m at your service.” Roger stood and tucked the note away.
“You needn’t leave just yet. It would be remiss of me to send you off without giving you the proper Anathema Club tour. Who knows if you’ll set foot here again. Is there anything you wish to see?”
Roger thought for a moment. “I heard tell of an ether-frolic. Is that a mythical beast around here or no, doctor?”
“Ether-frolic?” Dr Lundfrigg rubbed his palms together. “Oh yes, our prize-winning students and knighted scientists alike frolic regularly in the smoking room, in the company of nitrous oxide, diethyl ether, and some newer, more exciting substances. Would you care to look, or are you a man who wishes to experience for himself?”
Roger’s glee matched only Ada’s when she’d wielded a scalpel over Mrs Carver’s soon-to-be-jellied veal.
Dr Lundfrigg took Roger by the elbow and steered him to a seat at the smoking room table, built to withstand vigorous rounds of tallycracker. A pair of medical students, identifiable by their iodine-stained fingers and the bottle of Skullflash gin between them, took turns sniffing from the neck of an apothecary’s decanter. At the sight of the newcomers, the students gave cheery cries of “Hullo, Finchy,” and, “Bring us anything, you raspy old bone-knocker?” They didn’t even bother standing to greet a Knight of the Realm.
Dr Lundfrigg, to Roger’s surprise, beamed and clapped the students vigorously on their shoulders. “Sidney, Cato. Which of you young lancets swiped ether-spirits from the royal infirmary again?” He leaned in for a sniff from the decanter. “My naughty lads.”
Roger, feeling ill from the whiskey, propped himself up on his elbows while the table pitched slightly. He was used to cheap, watered-down spirits.
Dr Lundfrigg nodded at the Skullflash gin. “Pour him a dram, Cato.”
Cato studied Roger’s face. “Hullo, aren’t you old Eldridge’s chap?”
Roger stiffened, expecting cries of “Greyanchor Strangler!” but none came. Either the student couldn’t connect his face to a name, or Dr Eldridge had hushed up his arrest at the college.
Cato slid the unstoppered decanter under Roger’s nose. The fumes smelled like plum-infused port cut with a more corrosive tipple.
“Barely recognized you in those togs,” said Sidney, the student with sandy hair. “Maybe it’s just the shock of seeing your face in natural light, ha ha. You helped me pass my suturing exam last year, remember?”
“And you paid me with an old anatomy text,” Roger replied between inhalations. “Er… much obliged.” His eyes watered from the fumes, but he didn’t yet feel the fabled twinge. The phrase “ether-frolic” promised pub-style Tyanny dancing on the tabletops, but so far the experience proved disappointing. A sip of the Skullflash gin jolted him upright with a bright spark behind his eyeballs. The others laughed.
Dr Lundfrigg corked the ether decanter. “You had asked if I’d brought something better, my lancets. As it happens, I have.” He pulled a lavender handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded it with care to reveal a bundle of mushrooms.
Cato and Sidney leaned forward.
“You got more of that good stuff from last time, sawbones?” asked Cato. “Or will we need to shuffle across a bearskin rug to feel a shock?”
“Oh, I believe this batch is better than the last,” said Dr Lundfrigg. “See the extensive gilling here, and that bluish partial veil? I changed up the soils, as it were. Experimented with the nutrients I had on hand. Horticulture is a most calming hobby, though I don’t have as much time to dabble as I’d like.”
Sidney unfolded a jeweler’s loupe and studied the specimen with interest. “I can even see the spore dust on my fingers.”
“Are you looking to cure some ailment?” asked Roger. He knew common herbs could treat certain illnesses and heal wounds.
“In a manner of speaking, all of them,” said Dr Lundfrigg. “Eventually. For now, let’s just have some fun.”
Roger didn’t see much to be excited about. He looked from the dried stuff in the handkerchief to the corked decanter at Dr Lundfrigg’s elbow and sighed. He had a lot to learn about gentlemen’s clubs.
“Are they quite… exciting, then?”
“Exciting, man?” Sidney peered at Roger, his eye grotesquely magnified through his loupe. “These mushrooms may well be the highlight of my week. Considering I’m sitting through Dr Eldridge’s lectures on the female specimen, that should tell you something.”
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br /> “I suppose he’s not yet a student of mycology,” added Cato with a chuckle. “He’ll learn. With old Finchy’s permission, I’ll cut you a sample.”
At Dr Lundfrigg’s nudge, Roger presented his hand. “I quite like plants myself,” he said defensively. “Especially the snap-traps that eat flies.”
“That’s botany.” Cato placed a button-sized mushroom cap in each of their hands. “A different vat of eels altogether.”
“Now, gentlemen.” Dr Lundfrigg moved to the head of the table and cleared his throat. “You are holding a portion of variant ES1, my latest attempt to hybridize the common ghostcandle mushroom – purely in the name of medical advancement, of course.” He winked at Roger. “I can’t overstate how thrilled I am by these results; however, bear in mind that this is but a stepping-stone. The process is what excites me, not the recreational benefits you’ll soon enjoy. Once I’ve become more practiced in manipulating my mycological specimens, I foresee a treasure-trove of groundbreaking developments. And you, my dear lancets, will say you once shared a glass with the father of a new Scientific Age.”
The students and Roger indulged him with hearty applause.
Dr Lundfrigg beamed. “Now then. Are we all good and tipsy? Another round of Skullflash for the table? Don’t fall over, if you can help it. Before we start, you may wish to loosen your cravats. Remove rings and spectacles. Step away from the furniture. There’s no saying what could happen. Ready, then? Three, two, one…”
Dr Lundfrigg and the students placed their mushroom caps on their tongues. Roger followed suit.
“Don’t swallow,” Cato told him. “Don’t chew, just let it sit. Something is bound to happen any–”
He didn’t finish his sentence. A bubble emerged from his mouth with a gurgle and floated in the air like a blob of animated jelly.
“That’s not an ordinary bubble, is it?” managed Sidney before a similar blob emerged from his own mouth. He stabbed it with his finger, and it disintegrated. The remnants splattered on the carpet. “It’s like a normal air bubble, but it’s full of water. Impossible!”
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 23
