by Rod Duncan
By the time I had scanned five more journals, the wall clock showed it to be an hour before closing time. I retraced my steps to the information desk, where the same librarian stood.
“Finished already?” he asked. Republican servility prevented him from saying I told you so but his acerbic tone was eloquent.
“We were speaking about Erasmus Foxley,” I said.
“Indeed.”
“I’ve glanced at some of the articles. But time is limited. I was wondering if there is somewhere a summary of his work.”
“A summary?”
“A biography of sorts?”
“I thought that’s what you were writing.”
“These are early days,” I said.
“Previously you wanted writings by Dr Erasmus Foxley. Now you want writings about him?”
“I realise I may have given you a lot of work – collecting all those journals. I’m sorry. I forgot to say thank you.”
His expression softened. “It’s good of you to say so.” He pointed back into the Reading Hall. “You’ll find a copy of Who’s Who on the first shelf to the left of the entrance. That might be a good place to start.” He wrote 920.073 on a slip of paper and handed it to me.
“I should have asked for your advice from the start,” I said. “Thank you.”
I was turning to leave when his polite cough stopped me.
“One more thing. A delicate matter. One of the students... he enquired about you.”
“Which student?”
“He’s since left. But I thought you should know.”
I pondered this news as I retraced my steps to the Reading Hall. I was probably the only woman in the building. It was not overly surprising that someone had made inquiries. But the way the librarian had spoken made it seem as if there might be more to it than simple curiosity. A delicate matter suggested the kind of interest a man may have in a woman he finds attractive.
These thoughts were quickly forgotten when I found the shelf containing Who’s Who. The classification code matched the number the librarian had written for me. Each volume had a date printed on the spine, running from 1913 at the top of the shelf. I took the most recent volume, 2008, from near the bottom. Leafing through it, I quickly found Foxley.
The article was three pages long. It gave his birth year as 1962. From his home in Stoke-on-Trent he had travelled to Edinburgh to study medicine. An able student, he had graduated top of his class. It seemed he was ambitious also. He accepted menial jobs in order to work with the most famous surgeons of the day, never staying in any place for long. After ten years he had accumulated enough knowledge to set up his own practice in Nottingham.
Prior to this, his reputation had been confined to a small circle. But now he began to promote himself with public lectures and demonstrations, including autopsies. He gathered around himself a team of researchers and set them up in a laboratory within the General Hospital. His detractors referred to it as the factory, implying that those junior doctors who worked for him were little better than the labourers tending industrial machines. Nevertheless, an impressive quantity and quality of new developments in medicine were ascribed to his research.
The article did not mention wealth. To be so brash would have been unthinkable. But the implication was clear. Money flowed from his work. He sponsored annual expeditions to the rainforests of Africa and South America. Thousands of animal and plant species were thus made known to science. Through good fortune or judgement, many of these species were found to contain medically active ingredients. He was said to be fastidious in the protection of intellectual property. I took this to mean that he pursued legal claims against anyone who used his medicines without licence. The article also mentioned that he was unmarried.
His main achievements had been in the fields of oncology, gigantism and cryogenics. I had to consult a medical dictionary to understand the three terms. His interests lay in the fields of cancer, deformities of abnormal growth and the freezing of bodies. I sat staring at the book for a long time.
The wall clock chimed. The students began folding away their work. Footsteps echoed from walls and pillars, breaking me from my thoughts. Somehow it was closing time already. Feeling a pang of hunger, I realised I’d missed lunch. I gathered up my things and left. As I passed the information desk, the librarian favoured me with the hint of a smile. I smiled back. It seemed we had achieved some kind of understanding.
Walking towards the exit, I remembered the delicate matter about which he’d spoken. Talking in the Reading Hall was forbidden. The interested student could not have come over to introduce himself. Perhaps his reason for leaving early had been to wait for me outside. There was no place in my life for such matters, but the thought came to me that it could have been the man I had earlier admired. I pushed the thought away as my cheeks began to flush.
Nevertheless, I paused in the shadowed porch just outside the door and took a moment to survey the plaza and the street beyond. The handsome student was nowhere to be seen. But something had made my pulse quicken. At first I couldn’t pin it down. Then I remembered my previous library visit and the black Maria that had been waiting outside.
If I’d believed that lightning would never strike twice, I might have walked out into the late afternoon sunshine. But I hesitated. And as I did, a new thought came into my mind – another explanation for the student to have inquired after me. Perhaps he had recognised my face from a poster.
The final students jostled with each other as they headed into the sunshine, their books tied in bundles. I watched them go. So did a man who was standing on the far side of the road. He held a newspaper open but was not reading it. After that it was easy to spot other watchers. I counted three, though there could have been more beyond my view. They had not enough subtlety to be intelligence gatherers. More likely they were constables in plain clothes. And they would see me the moment I stepped out of the shadow.
The doors behind me creaked. I glanced back and saw that they were being closed by a porter. I was set to dive back inside, but the rattle of an approaching vehicle made me turn again. It was a double- decked omnibus, accelerating along the street. It would pass the library in a few seconds. I took deep breaths until my head began to spin. The horse team was level, blocking the view of the watchers on the other side of the road.
I ran, my pounding footfalls covered by the clatter of horseshoes. I’d crossed the plaza and was next to the omnibus when a man’s voice shouted from behind me. I snatched a glance over my shoulder and saw another plainclothes man sprinting out from the shadow of the library wall.
The omnibus had almost passed. I grabbed for the pole on the alighting platform. My arm and shoulder jolted as I caught it. Acceleration swung me around and in, so that my shoulder crashed against the base of the stairs.
The policemen were giving chase on foot, shouting for the driver to stop. I hauled myself to my feet. There was a commotion among the passengers. One woman screamed. But if the driver did hear the shouts, he took no heed. I felt the omnibus pick up speed as he flicked his whip over the horses’ backs. One by one the constables gave up the chase, gasping for breath in the middle of the road. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. When I opened them again, I saw that everyone in the omnibus was staring at me.
“Ruffians!” I said. “The city’s full of them!”
Chapter 31
Beware the bullet catcher in your audience. He is there for no good. All of them are thieves and liars and tricksters, with the exception of yourself.
The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook
The constables would be back at their station within the hour. It might take another hour for news to reach Nottingham’s central police house. Wheels would be set in motion. Freshly printed fugitive posters would be despatched bearing an updated picture and description. The wig had lost what little power it had to protect me. The Duke of Northampton’s promised reward would stir up the city. Such news travels fast among the working classes. The danger would
increase with every hour. Taking care, I might hope to last three days. Beyond that, I would have to choose between moving on and facing discovery. The risk of inaction had grown, tipping the scales of my decision the other way.
The dinner gong sounded in the guesthouse hallway outside my room. It was Tuesday evening. The autopsy would take place in a few hours. I listened to the footsteps of the other guests coming down from their rooms. There was a smell of beef and onions in the air.
I folded the corset into my case and began wrapping the binding cloth over my chemise. By the time I had fully transformed, the garden was dark enough to risk. Having made up the bed in the usual way, I turned off the gas lights, opened the window and climbed out into the garden, mouthing a silent thank you to my non-existent aunt’s arthritis.
I had intended to leave directly. Instead I found myself standing to listen for small sounds in the gathering night. Tinker had come unbidden to my mind. The boy had followed me so tenaciously that his absence seemed strange. But Ashbourne had been an easy proposition. He would not be able to find me in the sprawling city of Nottingham. From here on, I would be free of him.
Irrationally, I found myself whispering his name: “Tinker?”
There was no response.
Though it was evening, there were enough people on the street to leave me inconspicuous. I headed north towards the castle, perched on its rocky outcrop. Around its base, houses and pubs had been built into natural caves. Gas light shone from windows in the sandstone cliff. I could hear music and singing from Ye Oldie Trip to Jerusalem. Climbing Castle Road, I passed the statue of Robin the Revolutionary, his bronze bow pulled taut. Flowers had been heaped around the base of the plinth.
There is something about the act of walking that helps to compose the mind. The simple repetition of movement began to relax me and I found myself thinking about the statue. The great things Robin achieved were done after he had been driven from his home. The very fact of his stepping beyond the law enabled him to take such action. Desperation had been his strength. So might it be mine.
By the time I reached the hospital my hope and determination had returned. The sky was quite dark. I made my way through narrow alleyways to the rear entrance I had approached the day before. Crouching behind a cluster of evil-smelling dustbins, I kept watch. All remained quiet until just before nine o’clock, when the door was opened from within and private carriages began to arrive. The gentlemen who got out of them slipped inside without delay, hat brims pulled low. My disguise would not be out of place among them, though a sharp observer might see too many years of wear in my shoes.
But even as I watched the door, I had not decided to risk attending the macabre demonstration. On realising the price of the ticket, I’d decided against it. But my time in the city was now limited and there were no other threads to follow. The rightful owner might come looking for me. But the ticket was not numbered and thus could not be picked out from any other. In the half hour I’d been watching, there had been no sign of a constable or an intelligence gatherer.
The coach that had disgorged the last arrival began rolling away. The next one was rounding the corner a hundred paces distant. There were a few seconds in which I might emerge from my hiding place unseen. As I stood, I still was not certain of my decision. But I found myself marching to the door nonetheless and once inside there was no easy way back.
Having presented my ticket and kept hold of my coat, despite the offer to have it hung up, I followed the last arrival along a wide corridor and then down a flight of tiled stairs to the basement level. We began to catch up with three other men, who whispered together as they walked. All seemed to know where they were going. I was not the only one to be wearing a coat. My reason had been to retain one more layer of disguise. But as we entered the operating theatre I felt the chilled air and understood their motivation.
The room was unlike any I’d seen before. A horseshoe of steeply tiered stands looked down on the central space. It felt more like a dog pit than a place of science. Men stood waiting at different levels. Ebony hand rails prevented anyone falling forwards. The standing positions were not numbered. I climbed to the rear-most level, which was the least illuminated, and positioned myself close to the exit.
Most of the light shone down on the central space, which I could only think of as a stage. There was an entrance to one side of it, leading off into the wings, as it were. Though the stands were made of wood, the stage floor was polished stone. I noticed a small channel cut into it, leading to a drain hole. Feeling a vertiginous lurch in my stomach I gripped the rail harder.
The stalls were filling up. I was aware of someone taking the position next to me. His bare hand rested on the rail near my gloved one. His skin was smooth and he wore a wedding ring.
“First time for you then?” he whispered.
I nodded.
“They always start at the back. Look at them.” He pointed to the front row. “They’ve been coming for years. What must they have spent?”
I risked a glance and saw his profile for a moment – a fine chin and aquiline nose. “Why do they do it?” I asked.
“Why do you? Curiosity perhaps? That comes first. Ask me again at the end of the show. By then you’ll either get it or you won’t. Some men gamble. Some climb mountains. We all reach for the infinite as our talents allow.”
A man edged past us, taking up the final place on the rearmost stand. I attempted a head count but was confused by the trickle of late arrivals. There had to be more than fifty. Whispered conversations sounded like the indistinct buzzing of flies.
A man in brown overalls stepped in from the wings. He crouched to adjust the lights around the rim of the stage, bringing them up so that the empty space was brilliantly illuminated. Then he turned and left. The whispered conversations had stopped.
Then in strode Dr Erasmus Foxley. Though he wore no hat and an apron had been tied around to protect his clothes, I recognised the stance of a ringmaster. He turned slowly, his steel gaze cutting across the ranks of his audience. He paused to build our anticipation.
“Councillors, gentlemen – I wish to thank you for gathering here to witness another step in our exploration of the vast unknown. Our journey today is not to follow the winding course of the Congo River into the interior of its dark continent. Yet it is a journey as marvellous, connecting the vast and unnamed tributaries of the capillary system through the vascular system all the way to the heart itself.”
He snapped his fingers and two more apron- clad men manoeuvred a wheeled table in from the wings. The form of a body lay on top, covered by a white sheet. They positioned it centre stage then took up positions behind, one to each side of Foxley. The arrangement brought to mind an altar, complete with priests and human sacrifice.
A fourth man carrying a camera entered. He set up his tripod behind the surgeons, angling the lens down at the shrouded body.
“Our subject today is one Jeremiah Tuesday, dead two weeks but immediately preserved in salted ice. The cadaver has been thawed naturally over forty-eight hours but kept all the time below four degrees c Celsius.”
He took hold of the sheet’s hem. There was a creaking of wood as every man leaned forward on the hand rails. Then with a neat flourish he revealed the face and chest of the dead man.
I had seen the dead before, laid out for a community to pay its last respects. But this was different. Jeremiah Tuesday lay naked, an ugly purple line conspicuous around his neck. But the shock I felt was not from these things. It came from the unholy mixing of performance and death.
“The arteries and veins of the circulatory system have been named and classified. But no one can count the vast network of the capillary system. Each channel is connected to every other. Insert a needle into the skin at any point on the body and you will have punctured the self-same system. But where shall we begin this journey?”
Again he gripped the sheet. With another crisp movement he pulled it clear so that it fell to the floor behind the a
ltar. Again the audience leaned forwards. Though my first reaction had been to pull away, I confess that I found myself following their movement.
“Mr Tuesday belonged to the criminal classes. You will have noted the strong brow ridge, indicating reduced intelligence. And the abundance of dark hair covering the body. Note also the excellent definition still visible in the muscle groups of the arm, stomach and thighs. And the tumescence of the male member.”
I knew I should not look, but still I did.
The surgeons stood aside whilst the photographer removed the lens cap. I counted three beats of my heart before he replaced it. Dr Foxley had strapped on a set of surgeon’s eyeglasses. As he returned to his place by the body, he swivelled something that looked like a microscope down in front of his left eye. I saw a flash of steel as he received a scalpel from the man on his right.
“And so we begin,” he said.
With a single, swift movement of the blade he cut the first incision around the ankle of the dead man. A second cut travelled up the leg. There was no blood. That surprised me. But then he peeled back the skin revealing a pattern of blue veins and red flesh.
I turned away. Several of the men along the row next to me were peering through opera glasses. I looked around the audience. At first it seemed I was the only one to have averted my eyes. Then I caught a movement by my shoulder and saw that the man with the aquiline nose had been looking directly at me. It was a small thing – little more than a flash of the eyes. I might hardly have noticed.
