Unseemly Science

by Rod Duncan

  When I told him about the perfectly severed finger and the evidence that pointed to Nottingham, he stood and began pacing. I followed him. When I caught up he said:

  “I don’t approve.”

  “Of severed fingers?”

  “Of your investigation.”

  “I should have conducted it some other way?”

  “I have a duty to protect,” he said. “And this is too dangerous.”

  “Think of poor Antonia. Kidnapped by bodysnatchers. Is she owed no duty?”

  His mouth opened and closed again, caught between speaking and silence.

  A party of teenage girls with satchels entered the gallery, shepherded by two women who might have been governesses.

  “Your brother should be doing this,” Farthing muttered. “Not you.”

  Then he strode away, as if he had merely been passing the place where I stood. On the other side of the room, the governesses gave instructions and the girls began getting out pencils and sketch pads. I caught up with Farthing in the next gallery along.

  “Even if your deductions are correct,” he said, “what can you possibly achieve?”

  “I can follow clues.”

  “You intend to visit every hospital? Question every physician?”

  “Remember the name from the message? Fox. There are only two medical men with that surname. A dentist and a chiropodist. Not promising. But there’s also a Dr Foxley. Erasmus Foxley. He does public autopsies. What odds would you have put on that?”

  Farthing checked and wound his pocket watch. I walked away and stood in front of a huge canvas depicting the battle of Stanhope. Heroic lead miners doing battle with the soldiers of the Prince Bishop. Other visitors were ambling through the gallery. Farthing did not join me until they had moved on.

  “Your reasoning could be wrong,” he said. “Have you thought of that?. Elizabeth Barnabus could have made a mistake?”

  “You think me proud?”

  “I think you clothe yourself in virtue and call me corrupt whenever I disagree!”

  “Then you fault my reasoning?”

  “I cannot. That’s what I’m afraid of. You’re walking into terrible danger.”

  “Then help me!”

  “You know the risk I’ve taken merely coming here?”

  “And why have I asked you? Why am I forced to do these things? Because an agent of the Patent Office took a bribe and–”

  “Say the word and I’ll raise your complaint. There could yet be an investigation. If an agent is guilty as you claim…”

  “The Patent Office investigating its own? I’d win my case, do you suppose? We both know that’s not going to happen.”

  “Then what can I do?”

  “You have files on important people. Check to see if anything’s written about Erasmus Foxley. That’s all I ask. Without information, I’m fighting blind. If there was something, even a suspicion, you could ask questions. Officially, I mean. As an agent.”

  “There won’t be anything,” he said.

  “But you will look?”

  “I don’t know why I’m agreeing. But yes. I’ll look.”

  “How soon can we meet?”

  “A week?”

  “Too long.”

  “Searching the files, I put myself in danger! I’ll need four days, at least.”

  He began telling me of a tea shop on Bridlesmith Gate where we could meet. I gazed at the canvas on the wall in front of us.

  “Elizabeth, did you take in what I said?”

  In truth I’d drifted, distracted by the unfamiliar thought that an agent of the International Patent Office could be in danger from his own organisation.

  “I was saying that he’s a doctor. That leaves slim chance of finding anything in the records.”

  I gestured to the painting. “Look at those miners. You know the story. What chance did they have against trained soldiers? But all other choice was gone. So they took up arms.”

  “You’re not fighting a war, Elizabeth.”

  After a moment in which we both stared at the picture, I asked: “Why didn’t you report me?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “At the prison camp. You knew I was planning to escape.”

  “I... I didn’t mean to look at you. But–...”

  “A woman prisoner raised the alarm. You refrained.”

  “She was driven to it. Don’t think too badly of her.”

  I tried to drive the image of Tulip from my mind. I had thought her my friend.

  “Neither you nor I have children,” said Farthing. “We can’t know the desperation that woman felt. I was there when she raised the alarm. I can tell you she wept.”

  “Children?”

  “Her son and daughter. They were together on the end of the same chain that held you. She informed in the hope it would win their release. It did not.”

  Chapter 29

  Misdirection is your trick. All else is polish. A pretty girl dancing will leave an elephant unseen.

  The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

  Public autopsies cannot be read about on day-bills. Nor even in exclusive magazines. But the third hospital porter I approached proved susceptible. The more rapidly I fanned myself, the more he seemed encouraged.

  “They love to see a body cut open,” he said.

  “Who could bear to watch such things?”

  “Gents as you’d think respectable,” he said. “Gents as hold more cash than kindling.”

  “And have you seen it?” I asked.

  “No, Miss. But I see the bodies laid out, ’coz it’s my job to keep the ice topped up. And I take the bits away, after.” He put special emphasis on the word bits. “You wouldn’t believe the things inside a body. And the colours. Not just red. There’s blue and black and white and yellow.”

  “I think you’re brave,” I said, fanning myself extra hard for good effect. “I could never look at such things. Who attends?”

  “The richer a man, the more he likes it.”

  “Are the demonstrations advertised?”

  “You wasn’t thinking of going, was you?” After laughing heartily at his own joke, he added: “Word gets round. Day before a show, there’ll be a crowd of servants waiting out the back to buy tickets.”

  “I’ve heard of one surgeon,” I said. “Erasmus Foxley.”

  “I like his work,” said the porter, nodding like a connoisseur. “Always a clean cut. He’s doing one Tuesday. I iced the body this morning. A man from Bristol. They do like to see a Royalist on the slab. Bet he never thought he’d end up in the Republic, eh? When it’s an old wrinkly, died in debt, they won’t sell all the tickets. But this one’s a young’un. The place’ll be full. Better still if it was a woman, young and pretty...”

  I hadn’t been aware of the nausea creeping up on me. Each revelation had been more gruesome and compelling than the last. Unexpectedly I saw Florence May in my mind’s eye, standing with the noose around her neck and a casket of ice to the side. I had to turn away and cover my mouth with my hand. My skin felt cold and damp.

  “You like that do you?” he said.

  Though the porter had misjudged much, his description proved accurate. On Monday morning, I found my way to a rear door of the hospital where a crowd of young servants mingled. They smoked and chatted in the sunshine, giving the impression of a familiar routine. A sign next to the door read: For Night Deliveries First Call at Lodge.

  My arrival was like a stone being dropped into the middle of a pond. Awareness that something was wrong spread through the group. Conversations stopped.

  “Can I help you, Miss?” inquired a man not much older than Tinker.

  “Is this the place to buy the tickets?” I asked.

  “Yes, but…” He looked around the group as if for moral support. “It’s not for a lady, Miss.

  “It’s the master wants one,.” I said, trying to match the pattern of his speech.

  But he was shaking his head. “It’s not right.”

 
; I looked to the others. Arms were folded. Their faces were a stone wall. Had I not been wanted by the law I might have pressed my case.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “A mistake.” Then hurried away before they started asking questions I could not answer.

  The front of the hospital presented a grand aspect with a Georgian range and the round tower of the famous Oak Wing. But the addition of further wards and ancillary buildings had been haphazard and the rear of the hospital sprawled into a maze of disreputable- looking passages.

  Once the young men had collected tickets for their masters, most would make their way to the front and disperse via the main road. But I noticed a small alleyway, which might serve as a cut-through for a brave soul wanting to head in the opposite direction. It did not run straight but doglegged between a laundry and the ambulance stables, creating a blind spot a few paces across that could not be seen from either end.

  It was here that I positioned myself, prostrate as if fainted, face resting on outstretched arm. Then, thinking of my likely audience, I hitched up my skirts a few inches, bunching the material above my knee so to reveal a gap between boot and hem. I’m not a practiced dipper, but with enough distraction anyone can pick a pocket.

  The first footsteps I heard approaching came from the wrong end of the alleyway. I scrambled to my feet with just enough time to brush myself down before a medical orderly hurried into view, carrying the poles of a stretcher on his shoulder. Busy about his work, he passed me without a glance.

  Once he was away, I lay back down on the cobbles, repositioning myself as might an artist’s model. Two minutes passed before I heard footsteps coming from the other direction. I held my breath. The footsteps scraped to an abrupt stop.

  “Hells bells!”

  It was a man’s voice.

  “Miss?”

  He patted the back of my hand. Then, when I didn’t move, he lifted it and pulled gently. Fearing that he might rush off to get help, I let out a groan as if coming round from a faint.

  “Wake up. Please. Miss?”

  Through my eyelashes, I could see that his jacket was of poor cut, but likely there were pockets within. I shifted my position and gripped his arm. In moments he was lifting me. I grabbed his jacket lapel, as if for support. There was no pocket on his right side.

  He had me on my feet and was about to step back so I let my knees buckle again and he was forced to grab me under the arms.

  The unfamiliar contact was distracting enough for me, let alone for him, a man of perhaps nineteen years. My hand darted within the left side of his jacket and dipped into the pocket. I covered the move with a forward lurch. He was obliged to use his body to stop me falling.

  “Let me sit,” I said.

  As he lowered me I contrived to drop the contents of his pocket onto the floor beneath my skirts.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  “Water,” I gasped. Then added, as an afterthought in case the water proved too near: “And smelling salts.”

  He seemed grateful for the chance to run away. As soon as the sound of his footsteps had died I got to my feet, grabbed what I had stolen and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction.

  If you ever find yourself on the run and looking for a place of safety, choose somewhere with an entrance fee. I paid my money and once again pushed through the turnstile into the grounds of Nottingham Castle. Having followed the curving path up the hill, I selected a bench with the security of a wide view over the grounds below. No one gave me a second glance. Once a tourist has paid her money, it is no one’s business to ask how she spends the time.

  The contents of the man’s pocket I now laid out on my lap, seeing them properly for the first time. I felt little guilt. The finer morals are easily forgotten when life itself is under threat. I wondered whether he would be punished. His master might think he had stolen the money. Though, if the gentleman was a regular, he would most likely have an account. The servant would not be trusted with substantial sums.

  The first item was a slim tin box that rattled when I shook it. Opening it, I found five greenish pills and a sheet of finely printed paper. To steal the poor man’s medicine had not been my intention. But on reading the paper, I relaxed. Dr Farnham’s patented strengthening pills. A tonic for masculine vigour. The accompanying illustration showed a sailor embracing his sweetheart. I guessed the servant’s life would not be threatened by their loss.

  I dropped the tin into the flower border behind the bench and disposed of a small purse in the same way, having first extracted four tenpences and three pennies, which I added to my own money. How easily I had become a common criminal.

  Next on the pile was a sheet of paper. I unfolded it, flattening out the creases on my knee. It was a daybill advertising the performance of Artistic Tableau on the Classical Themes. The illustration included strategically placed fig leaves. I could not believe such shows would be tolerated in Nottingham. Sure enough, the flier gave an address in Cank Street, deep in the Leicester Backs. How like my adopted city. It had been peeled from a wall to judge by the wrinkles and the tear down one side.

  Finally, I came to the ticket itself.

  For admission to the public autopsy of Mr Jeremiah Tuesday, convicted murderer, hanged in Bristol. In life the specimen was a working man of twenty-eight28 years. The body shows finely developed musculature. Since execution it has been kept in ice. Autopsy to be performed by Doctor Erasmus Foxley.

  I turned the paper over and saw the price – fifty guineas. My skin prickled with the breaking through of perspiration. Men have hanged for lesser robberies. The rightful owner of the ticket would surely inform the constables. They might go to the hospital to search for the thief. Whatever I could have learned attending the demonstration would remain undiscovered. The risk was too great.

  In spite of the chance I was losing, I felt a wash of relief.

  Chapter 30

  For good or ill, knowledge has ever threatened the settled order. A keg of gunpowder may make matchwood of a sturdy house. But a book can set the world on fire.

  From Revolution

  Though fruitful, I now realised that my library visit in Leicester had been ill judged. It was not solely my sex that had made the librarian regard me as unsuitable. I had seemed insufficiently studious. I decided to remedy this before attempting a similar visit in Nottingham.

  From a used goods store near the law courts, I purchased a pair of spectacles. They made everything blurry and on wearing them for more than a few minutes, I could feel a headache starting to throb. But I fancied they made me look the part. A well- worn document case under my arm completed the illusion. Thus arrayed, I made my way to North Circus Street and strode into the hallowed halls of the famous medical library.

  “I’m writing a biography,” I whispered to the librarian at the information desk.

  He inclined his head to indicate respectful understanding. “And how may I be of help?”

  “My subject is an eminent surgeon. Perhaps you might have some of his writings?”

  “The name?”

  “Foxley.”

  “Erasmus Foxley? His text book of oncology is well regarded. But the bulk of his work will be in medical journals.”

  “That would be perfect. Thank you.”

  “Without medical training... that is to say the language will be technical.”

  “Nevertheless – I trust I’ll glean something.”

  A frown wrinkled his brow. “The articles may be very numerous.”

  “Then could I suggest a trolley?”

  I placed the empty document case on my allotted table and settled down to wait. Removing the spectacles, I was able to read the clock on the far wall. It was three in the afternoon. Most of the other library patrons were young men. Medical students, I judged them to be. The scratching of their pens and the occasional cough were the only sounds to penetrate the sanctuary of the Reading Hall. I looked from face to face. Most were pale from hours of indoor study. A few were passably
handsome. One particularly so. I allowed myself to watch him work. But after a quarter of an hour he lost his appeal. My eye moved on to the high ceiling, the flagstone floor and even the cracks in the whitewashed wall plaster.

  At half past three a book fell to the floor somewhere in the library. The sound reverberated among the stone columns and Norman arches. The scratching of pens stopped. The students craned their necks to look. But nothing happened. One by one they returned to their studies.

  At last, the squeaking of wheels alerted me to the approach of the librarian manoeuvring a trolley between the tables. He parked it next to me and hovered for a moment as I cast my eye down the wobbling stack of scientific journals. I could not hope to read a tenth of them. He had been trying to tell me as much. But I had so expected him to block me that I had not listened. Perhaps he caught the look of understanding on my face because I saw a flicker of a smile on his before he bowed and left.

  I took the first journal, leafed through it and quickly found Foxley’s name listed alongside several other authors of an article on the use of bacterial toxins in nerve paralysis experiments. I understood perhaps half the words in the first paragraph but little of the meaning. A diagram filled one page, but most of the explanatory key was written in Latin. I worked my way through three similar articles in different journals. None of them made sense to me. I could not even find a pattern in the subjects of his research.