The Anatomist's Apprentice

by Tessa Harris

  In the upper room of an inn not half a mile away, two men sat drinking in a sombre mood. Between them was a table covered with the detritus of an evening meal: a half-eaten game pie, a dish of cabbage, and the remains of a stale loaf. Taking pride of place, as the centerpiece of the table, stood a decanter half full of brandy, but the amber liquid that so often soothed Michael Farrell’s tension did not seem to be working its magic that evening. The captain downed another shot, but felt no better.

  James Lavington sat opposite him, the disfigured side of his face hidden in the deep shadow cast by the candle on the table. He had never seen his friend so troubled. There had been many a time at the gaming tables when he had stood to lose his whole fortune and yet he had still smiled and held his nerve until the final die had been cast or the last card revealed.

  Lavington, too, was feeling agitated. The day’s events had unfolded in an unexpected and dramatic fashion that not even he, the greatest of pessimists, could have envisaged. The two men had hardly spoken over dinner, so engrossed were they in their own machinations and recriminations. Hannah’s words played themselves over and over in both their minds. Her outburst had thrown up more questions than answers and her testimony had been more malevolent than helpful. Her husband’s evidence, too, had poured oil on the flames and the heat was growing too intense for comfort.

  What Lavington feared most was that his carefully laid plans were unraveling slowly but surely in front of his very eyes. It had seemed such a simple, straightforward scheme: a comfortable living far away that would have cut the ties to Boughton Hall and to Farrell. It would have harmed no one, save for the profligate little scoundrel, who now lay dead, and he had never once visited the Irish estate anyway. He could have made a new life, independent of Farrell’s charity and favors. Ensconced in his country pile, sheltered from the prying eyes of common villagers and curious ladies, he could have found the peace that he so craved. Yet now it was all in jeopardy and not only that, but because of his association with the Irishman, so was his own integrity.

  Between the men on the cloth-covered table lay a wooden bowl piled high with apples, hard-skinned pears, and crimson plums. A sharp knife rested nearby and Farrell picked it up, calmly inspecting the blade in the candle glow, then suddenly he lunged at an apple, stabbing it with such ferocity that Lavington felt alarmed. He knew that the shiny pink skin that had been so viciously pierced could well have been Hannah’s breast in the captain’s mind’s eye and it made him wonder.

  “So, this is how the whore would repay my kindness,” cursed Farrell under his breath, inspecting the apple that now lay impaled on the end of the blade.

  “You will have your say in the stand on the morrow,” ventured Lavington, trying to ease his companion’s agitation.

  Farrell remained thoughtful for a moment, then his expression suddenly changed from a scowl of anger to a broad smile. “You’re right, dear Lavington,” he replied, then, taking a large bite out of the apple he still held on his knife, he quipped: “I’ll have them eating out of my hands.”

  Chapter 26

  The brain, mused Dr. Thomas Silkstone, as he lay listlessly in his bed, is the most complex of all the organs. From the gray, spongy marsh of the inner cerebral cortex to the fields of tubules and cobweb threads of the cerebrum, from the undulating hills of the cerebellum to the boggy lowlands of the hypothalamus, the trails and routes of the brain were charted territories inasmuch as explorer surgeons had traversed their silent landscapes many times.

  Through trial and error, by scaling rocky outcrops and probing deep canyons, they had managed to ascertain that certain regions were responsible for certain functions. Their voyage of discovery was by no means ended, although they had managed to gather much invaluable information on their eventful journey. And yet, thought Thomas, no one had come near to finding the seat of the soul.

  By soul, he meant not the nebulous religious concept that could bring a man closer to God in its purest state, but the very essence of a being. To him the soul was the seat of all memories, of all ideas, of all thoughts that crystalize into the character of a man and make him who he is. Somehow these thoughts were as clay, taken and molded, or hewn and sculpted with all the skill of Michelangelo and turned miraculously into the unique character and personality of the individual.

  And what of feelings? What of sensations? Of inklings and forebodings? Of nagging illogicalities and inexplicable premonitions? Were they generated from the realm of the spirit or the brain? Were the questions and musings that kept darting around in his brain emitting from his cerebrum or his soul?

  As soon as a pale finger of weak autumn sunlight probed its way into his room at the White Horse the young New Englander rose immediately. His brain, or rather the workings of it, had done him a great disservice throughout most of the night, depriving him of sleep and causing him to experience a state of acute anxiety. He had often seen such symptoms in his patients: muscle tension, sweaty palms, and a dry mouth. It did not help that his swollen jaw was still causing him a great deal of discomfort and his head still throbbed with every heartbeat.

  When his patients presented themselves to him with such problems, he could do little but advise rest and a gill of brandy, although he had recently read of the restorative powers of digitalis purpurea in a monograph by a doctor from somewhere in the north. He postulated that the common purple foxglove could exercise a power over the motion of the heart, which in turn would lead to a relaxation of the patient’s anxiety. Thomas had yet to try this claim out on a patient, but intended to do so shortly. In the meantime, however, he must prepare himself for the day’s events.

  At precisely ten o’clock he found himself once more exposed to the ignorant taunts and ill-conceived jibes of the cinder sifters and costermongers of Oxford. They had heard him speak the previous day in court and word had spread that he was a colonist, even though his accent was virtually undetectable.

  Thomas sat behind a long table at the front of the court. From the corner of his right eye he could see Captain Farrell and Lady Lydia. The latter sat composed as ever, with a yellow, lace-trimmed cape around her diminutive shoulders, but he dared not look at her for fear of incurring her husband’s displeasure. He judged that she would not have imparted to him the news that rat poison was not the cause of her brother’s death. Had she done so, her clandestine meeting with him at Christ Church would have been exposed. She would, he surmised, be content to let him formally reveal the results of his experiments from the authoritative platform of the witness stand.

  A respectful hush settled on the rabble in the gallery as soon as Sir Theodisius appeared, the yolky remnants of the morning’s breakfast clearly visible on his black robe. As soon as the coroner had settled his corpulent frame into his chair, the clerk called Thomas to the stand.

  Diligently the anatomist explained how he had been summoned to Boughton Hall to conduct a postmortem on Lord Crick, who had been dead for more than six days. Sparing the sensibilities of the ladies present in the courtroom, although admittedly they were few and far between, he described how he had found the corpse in an advanced state of decomposition and how he had worked as quickly as possible, removing any relevant organs for later examination.

  Thomas delivered his findings with clarity and conviction. Aware that many of the terms he used would be unfamiliar to Sir Theodisius, let alone his audience, he carefully explained each causality, each result, each influence and product with the patience of a benign pedagogue, as Gamaliel to Saul.

  When it came to explaining his experiments regarding the sample of rat poison that Lady Lydia had sent him without the captain’s knowledge or approval, Thomas knew he was treading on delicate ground, however. He decided to try and brush over how he came by the phial, but Sir Theodisius was as sharp as a needle.

  “Pray, how did this poison come into your possession, if as we heard, the still was destroyed very soon after Lord Crick’s demise?” pressed the coroner.

  Thomas felt a knot in
his stomach. He dared not look at Lady Lydia. “I am a scientist, sir,” he replied, keeping his gaze firmly on the table ahead. “It is my duty to examine all possibilities; to probe into all eventualities,” he went on somewhat enigmatically.

  Sir Theodisius raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, and I can see you are doing an excellent job,” replied the coroner reassuringly.

  During most of his testimony, the gallery had been silent, unable to comprehend even the basic tenets of Thomas’s scientific proposition. After ten minutes or so, one or two even dared to shout to him to “get on with it,” or to “speak plain,” much to Sir Theodisius’s displeasure. He had ordered them out of the gallery and allowed Thomas to proceed. He did so for another five minutes, unfazed by the rude interruptions, and then finally drew to his conclusion.

  “In summary, sir, I would say that after examining the deceased’s stomach, I can categorically say that the rat poison, otherwise known as laurel water, was not responsible for the death of Lord Crick.”

  The coroner sat back in his chair, looking singularly unimpressed. “That is all very well, Dr. Silkstone,” he mused, “but can you say what did cause Lord Crick’s death?”

  Thomas frowned. He had not expected such a response. He found himself tensing involuntarily. Once more he felt a knot in his stomach. “I am afraid I cannot, sir,” he replied, crestfallen.

  Sir Theodisius, without any seeming regard for the young doctor’s feelings, raised his eyes heavenward, in full view of the throng. It caused much amusement among the painted faces and ragged breeches and Thomas felt momentarily humiliated. He looked toward Lydia, as if trying to gain strength from her.

  Instead it was Farrell who caught his eye. The captain, who had been sitting quietly throughout Thomas’s evidence, gestured his contempt and mouthed his exasperation into the stale air of the courtroom. Lydia held his flailing arm, trying to quieten him. She glanced toward Thomas and held his gaze and he knew then that it was she who needed his support.

  “Order! Order!” cried Sir Theodisius for the third time that morning. The fracas died down once more.

  “Then, if there is no more you wish to say, Dr. Silkstone,” said Sir Theodisius, about to dismiss Thomas.

  “But there is, sir,” countered the young anatomist.

  The coroner acceded. “Yes, Dr. Silkstone.”

  The court was now quiet, eagerly anticipating Thomas’s next statement, hoping that he would totally discredit himself and his untrustworthy profession. They were disappointed.

  “When I said I had not ascertained Lord Crick’s cause of death, I neglected to say so far, sir.” There was a certain defiance in his tone. “I do, however, have every confidence that I will be able to present the court with conclusive evidence as to how the young man died.”

  Sir Theodisius nodded. “And when may we look forward to that evidence, Dr. Silkstone?” he asked.

  “I need to return to my own laboratory in London to complete more experiments, but I would hope within two weeks,” Thomas replied, knowing full well that such tests would, in all probability, take at least a month.

  The coroner paused. “Very well, Dr. Silkstone. The court notes your offer,” he said, nodding to the clerk, his quill poised over the record book, “and looks forward to hearing a further report.”

  Relieved, Thomas allowed himself a fleeting smile as he stepped down from the witness stand and walked back to his seat. He glanced across at Lady Lydia. For an instant their eyes met. He knew he could not let her down.

  Back at Boughton Hall, young Will Lovelock had been tasked to go about his daily chores as if all were normal. His parents had stayed the night in a boardinghouse in Oxford, at Captain Farrell’s expense, but had ordered their son to fulfill his duties the same as ever he did, as well as doing some of his mother’s.

  At first light he had risen and filled a whisket with kindling for the fires. Mistress Firebrace, the housekeeper, had told him to first lay one in the kitchen, then in the drawing room, even though the house was empty. Naturally he did not question her orders, but went about his business, first laying the kindling, then setting on the larger logs before lighting the taper and watching the flames take hold in the grates.

  When he was certain no one would enter the room for a while, he sat back on his haunches as the warmth from the fire grew, holding out his scabby hands. Some of the sore places were still raw and moist but his mother’s fragrant unguent had soothed the itching so that he did not scratch as much now. In the heat of the summer, or at night under the coverlet, the itching would be at its worst, like so many ants gnawing away at his broken flesh. Sometimes he had cried out in pain and when the patches of scaly skin spread to the backs of his knees, he thought he would scream with the fire of them. There were times when he felt the torments of demons as they prodded him and burned his skin. And when his mother tried to hold him to comfort him, he would push her away, not because he did not want her tenderness but because he could not bear her touch.

  Will’s suffering continued for many weeks until one day, it was early spring as he recalled, he and his mother and Rebecca were on the road to Brandwick to buy thread. The first shoots were appearing fresh and green and the scent of lily-of-the-valley hung sweet in the air. It was then that they met her—an old didicoy, making her way out of the village. Her skin was nut brown and as lined as a hornbeam and when she spoke Will could see no teeth in her head. His mother had told them about Gypsy folk; how if they were to see one on the road, they should run away as fast as they could. But instead of ignoring the old crone, Hannah returned her greeting and stopped to talk. Will was all for ignoring her, but Rebecca chastised him and said the old woman would only put a curse on him if he should bolt. He was still too afraid to listen to their conversation, however, and stayed a few paces away, so that he could run if the old witch suddenly began ranting. Neither his mother, nor Rebecca, seemed in the least bit concerned. The Gypsy showed them something in the whisket she was carrying and then, to Will’s dismay, his mother summoned him to her side. Gingerly he walked over to the women and, at his mother’s bidding, he held out his hands to be inspected by the Gypsy.

  The didicoy nodded. “Yes,” she spat through smooth, pink gums, “this should ease it.” And so Will’s mother parted with half a penny and came away with a small hessian bag.

  On their return home Hannah and Rebecca had begun to gather herbs from the potager and pick wildflowers from the meadows. In her pestle his mother ground them with her mortar, releasing strange, pungent, unfamiliar smells. Some leaves she seeped in viscous oil, others in spirit that made his eyes sting. To these ingredients she added the contents of the little hessian bag.

  Shortly afterward she came to him in his suffering and smeared his suppurating flesh with a balm so cool and soothing that it would have quenched the fires of hell. She rubbed it lovingly onto his bleeding wrists and the backs of his hands and smeared it into the crevices between his fingers, bringing him a relief so instant that it might have been a miracle from heaven.

  His mother had made a large bowl of the balm and Rebecca spooned it into a jar, so that when the fire flared up again, his torments might be eased quickly. He could still see his sister, standing at the kitchen table, carefully ladling the brown mixture, then looking up and smiling at him.

  Now that the wounds were healing, he could once more relish the warmth of an open fire on a chill autumn morning and he thanked his mother for her ointment and he thanked God for giving her such healing powers. But nothing would bring back Rebecca.

  It was Mistress Claddingbowl who broke his reverie. “Will ... Will,” she called. “You good-for-nothing... .” She opened the drawing room door to find him clearing up the last of the kindling from the hearth.

  “You should’ve finished that by now,” she scolded. “I need some apples from the store. Go fetch me a good dozen cookers for a pie,” she ordered, wiping her plump fingers on her stained apron. This was another task his mother usually fulfilled, but he did n
ot mind. He liked the sweet liquor smell of the apple store that reminded him of his father’s cider.

  Will rose immediately, nodded an acknowledgment, then, taking the same whisket that had held the kindling, he made his way to the store that lay off the courtyard. Dust motes danced in the autumn sunlight as he opened the door. Inside it was dark and it smelled sickly sweet with the fragrance of the fruit.

  The cooking apples lay in a barrel at the back. Large, waxy, and bright green, many of the late picked ones had brown spots, but in the half light it was impossible to see which were good and which were not without taking each one out of the barrel and inspecting it at the door.

  Delving deep, Will heard the apples tumble about, rumbling like a drum. He pulled one out, held it to the light, and judged it passable. There followed another and another until his basket was almost full. Once again he plunged his hand in, this time much deeper, so that his hips hung over the neck of the barrel and his toes were on their tips. It was then that he heard it: a foreign, clanking sound against the iron frame of the cask. He felt once more. There it was again, an alien presence among the overripe mush of fruit at the bottom. His enquiring hands explored even deeper, probing to the very floor of the barrel, then, fanning his fingers out, he felt something hard and cold and angular. It was most definitely not an apple.

  Chapter 27

  Jeers and catcalls rang out in the courtroom as Captain Michael Farrell took the stand to give evidence at the inquest of his late, and not much lamented, brother-in-law. The rabble had already made up their minds, casting him as the villain of the piece, branding him a murderer before a verdict on the cause of death had even been reached.

  Yet as Sir Theodisius once more called for “order,” Michael Farrell’s disarming smile was having more effect in quieting the common horde than any blows of the coroner’s gavel. He wore the expression of a gentleman on a Sunday picnic, such was the ease and nonchalance of his demeanor, and he was dressed to match his mood. A lavender-colored topcoat, cream silk breeches, and a pink brocade waistcoat gave him an air of fashionable sophistication that was quite out of place in a courtroom. Yet he seemed not in the least bit concerned that his appearance caused Sir Theodisius to raise an eyebrow.