The Way of All Flesh

by Ambrose Parry

  ‘The professor is a man of broad acquaintance,’ Beattie said, as though this was in some way amusing. ‘I wouldn’t have thought him comfortable in a place like this these days. He is reputedly much in demand among the ladies of the aristocracy.’

  Though I am yet to see much evidence of it, Raven thought.

  ‘He is of humble origins, though,’ Raven said. This was another of the factors that had drawn him to the professor. If Simpson could rise to such stature and wealth from ordinary beginnings, he had reasoned, then perhaps a keen apprentice might learn to follow his path.

  ‘The son of a village baker,’ Beattie stated. ‘A seventh son and the last of eight.’

  This was more than Raven knew, and it showed.

  Beattie flashed him a self-conscious smile. ‘It is always wise to learn as much as you can about the great names in your field, in case fate should throw you into their company. Though being found blood-spattered and helpless at the foot of a patient’s bed – a patient I failed – is not the best first impression I could have hoped to make upon the man.’

  ‘Well, it can’t have been so bad if he invited you to Queen Street. And frankly, I was amazed at how calm you seemed amidst it all. I can’t keep my mind from returning to that room and of thinking about how it is likely to go for Mrs Williamson.’

  Beattie supped from his beer, an equanimity about him that further belied Raven’s early impression of his youth.

  ‘I very much doubt she will live,’ he said. ‘Even despite the attentions of Dr Simpson.’ His tone was even, as though discussing something third-hand rather than a woman whose blood even now daubed his shirt.

  ‘Does it get easier, then?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Does what?’

  ‘Dealing with such suffering. When I witness a case such as we just left, it holds me in its grip long after, and I fear the cumulative burden. Yet you were reasoned amidst it all and seem unaffected now.’

  Beattie regarded Raven for a moment, giving some thought to his answer.

  ‘Each man only has so much pity to give, and in our profession we encounter every day some tragedy upon which one might spend a large portion of it.’

  ‘Are you saying that in time I will become numb to this? For I am not sure I would wish that either.’

  ‘It is not so much a process of becoming numb, but of a perspective that is harshly learned through your own wounds rather than those you might treat. When you have known true sorrow, the plight of a patient, no matter how pitiful, will not hurt you like you have felt hurt before.’

  Raven thought he had known sorrow enough, but if he was still so vulnerable to the sufferings of others, then perhaps he had not known as much as Beattie. He said he had lost both his parents at the age of twelve, but something about the man suggested there was more than that. He was curious to know, but did not feel it his place to press.

  ‘And if I have not yet felt true sorrow?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Be grateful, and do not wallow in the misery of others. I am sincere in this. The patients require a distance from you, that you may exercise your judgment and skill undistracted by your emotions.’

  Raven knew this was right, though it was not easy to hear. He knew there was much he could learn from a doctor such as Beattie, but equally, seeing how he conducted himself was a stark reminder of how far he had to go.

  ‘So you’re set on a career in midwifery yourself?’ Beattie asked, this change of subject accompanied by a lightening in the tone of his voice.

  ‘Yes. I had thought of surgery, but it is decidedly not for me.’

  ‘Good choice. There is a brighter future in this profession than among the sawbones. Financially speaking, I mean.’

  Raven took in Beattie’s expensive garments and wondered whether these had been paid for by his uncle or by his earnings.

  ‘I have not seen much evidence of that so far,’ he confessed. ‘Unless some day I can be the one delivering those aristocratic ladies, but that seems likely to be a long way off.’

  Beattie had an impish grin, the lines around his eyes more distinct as he smiled.

  ‘This is a wider field than you understand, one that is even now opening up to new and lucrative possibilities. You need to think beyond babies and more about the women who bear them. There are all manner of new and exotic treatments for the various maladies the fairer sex seem prone to. Galvanism, uterine manipulation – scientific treatments for that perennial female affliction, hysteria. There is much money to be made from unhappy women and their exasperated husbands.’

  Raven made no reply, causing Beattie to continue in a similar vein.

  ‘Success is all about identifying opportunity,’ Beattie told him. ‘Talking of which, this ether stuff is promising, is it not? Think of what a price patients would put upon the oblivion you can provide during a procedure.’

  ‘Those who don’t have a religious objection,’ Raven muttered.

  ‘It’s potentially a gold mine,’ Beattie went on, paying no heed. ‘I gather the dentists in this town can’t get enough of it. You must be getting rather adept at its administration, working with Simpson.’

  ‘He has been training me in its use, yes. When it’s a complicated case, that is often the only thing he lets me do myself.’

  ‘Don’t complain. I’m sure it will prove a valuable skill.’

  ‘Though maybe not as valuable as dousing rich people in cold water,’ Raven replied.

  Beattie laughed, and suggested they have another ale. Raven would have dearly loved to. This was an acquaintance he would do well to cultivate, but he had other business to attend, and he would need all his wits about him for it.

  Fourteen

  It was dark as Raven made his way down the Canongate, bound for Evie’s lodgings. The lamps seemed almost futile in their efforts to penetrate the blackness and the fog, but he quietened his fear with the knowledge that if he could not make out his enemies amidst such gloom, then neither could they.

  He entered Evie’s close with a soft tread, but did not make it as far as the stairs before a familiar figure blocked his path. She had emerged from her lair on the ground floor, beyond which a mouse could seldom pass unnoticed unless this fearsome sentinel was already well in her cups.

  Evie always described Effie Peake as her landlady, but she didn’t own the place. She merely collected rent and kept a close eye on behalf of whoever did, for which she presumably got her own lodgings at a short rate. The woman was the nature of Edinburgh in microcosm, adept to the point of self-deception at compartmentalising her public and private faces. She insisted on being addressed as Mrs Peake, but this was rumoured to be an affectation, as according to Evie there had never been a Mr Peake. She reacted with outrage at any suggestion she was aware immoral conduct might be taking place upon her premises. But in truth, very little business escaped her notice: ‘Not when she’s taking a slice of every storm of heaves that happens beneath her roof,’ as Evie had put it.

  So she knew who came here, and who they saw. Raven had no doubt that as well as the local clientele, those visitors included men of high standing, of impeccable moral repute, of power and of influence. He also had no doubt that neither Effie’s word nor the word of any woman here would be worth a fig against such men should an accusation be made. Nonetheless, Raven suspected Mrs Peake might prove a rich fount of information, if anyone could find the right means of tapping it.

  She was short and stout, as though having developed her shape specifically to block this passageway. Despite her girth there was something narrow about her features, pale and pinched, suggesting that should she ever smile it would unravel the tight bun her hair was scraped into at the back. ‘If you’re looking for Evie, she’s not here,’ she said. An interesting choice of words, not least because it reassured him that she did not know he had been in the building that night.

  Raven opted therefore to play along.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone where? Wi
ll she be back soon?’

  Effie sighed, a weary look coming over her. ‘I’m only telling you this because I recognise your face and I know Evie had a fondness for you. Evie is dead.’

  Raven feigned shock and hurt, a task assisted by what Effie had just said about Evie having a fondness for him. It was also the first time he had heard anyone talk about her death beyond those callous words that had spilled from the mouth of that policeman.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Found her that way. Four, no five days ago.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  She looked at him as though he was a simpleton. ‘Buried. Where else would she be?’

  ‘I merely wondered, given that her death had been so sudden, whether it might have prompted an investigation of some kind. A post-mortem perhaps?’

  ‘A post what?’

  ‘An examination of the body, to determine the cause of death.’

  ‘Doctor from the dispensary determined it simply enough. Said it was the drink. Signed the certificate to that effect. Didn’t need much time to work that out.’

  Raven pictured the body being carried out to the cart in that tattered and filthy shroud. Never mind a post-mortem, the doctor from the dispensary would have barely looked at her. Sometimes they didn’t even enter the house.

  ‘Where was she taken?’

  ‘How should I know? Some pauper’s grave, as there was no one to pay for anything else. Anyway, that’s all I can tell you, so you ought to be on your way.’

  She folded her arms, her posture unmistakably defensive. She wanted him gone.

  ‘Could I see her room?’

  ‘Why? Are you some kind of ghoul?’

  ‘No, I’m a man of medicine.’

  Effie allowed herself a scornful smirk. ‘You don’t look like a man of anything to me.’

  Raven ignored this. ‘I would like to see if there is anything there that might help me deduce what became of her.’

  ‘I’ve already rented it. Can’t afford to keep good lodgings empty.’

  ‘Was there anyone with her before she died?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I respect my tenants’ privacy.’

  Like her folded arms, this mutually understood lie was an indication that she was putting up the shutters. She would tell him nothing more, which served only to make him wonder what she wished to conceal.

  Raven heard a door open above, saw a female face peering over the stairwell to investigate what she had overheard. The face disappeared again following a sharp look from Effie.

  ‘And what of Evie’s possessions?’ Raven enquired.

  ‘Sold. To cover expenses. Not that you get much for a couple of dresses and a pair of jet earrings.’

  ‘What about the brandy?’ he asked, wondering whether it and not the gut-rot might have proven toxic.

  ‘What brandy?’ she asked, but she had betrayed herself with her transparent surprise that he should know about it.

  ‘The bottle I saw in her room when last I visited.’

  Effie’s face took on a defiant expression. ‘That’s long gone too,’ she said. ‘I drank it.’

  ‘In that case, I have reason to thank you.’

  This truly confused her. ‘Thank me?’

  ‘For performing the most basic but reliable form of toxicological analysis. I had a concern that Evie’s death might have been attributable to drinking something that proved poisonous. By virtue of the fact that you are standing in front of me, I can deduce that it could not have been the brandy.’

  With that, Raven departed back into the gloom.

  He had barely traversed the breadth of the building when he heard footsteps at his back, approaching at speed. He turned, bracing himself to attack or to flee, but found himself confronted by the young woman who had been peering down the stairs some moments ago. It was difficult to be sure in the paltry light that fell here between two street lamps, but he thought she seemed familiar.

  ‘It’s Will, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aye. I saw you with Evie sometimes. She talked about you. I’m Peggy.’

  ‘I recognise you. Can I help?’

  ‘I overheard. You were asking if Evie had anyone with her the night she died. She did. I’m in the next room.’

  ‘You saw who came and went?’ he asked, suddenly fearing where this might be going.

  ‘I never saw. I heard them, though.’

  This came both as relief and disappointment. She hadn’t seen Raven, but nor would she be able to identify the visitor.

  ‘I don’t suppose his voice was familiar to you?’

  ‘No, but see, that’s the thing. It was a woman’s voice I heard.’

  Fifteen

  For all Raven had told Henry that it would take some adjustment in getting used to his new accommodations, he could not deny he felt a sense of sanctuary as he crossed the threshold. He hoped the Simpson family appreciated how privileged they were to live in this place, safe not only from cold and hunger, but from the world of danger, anxiety and suspicion that he had grown used to. Here on Queen Street, he no longer had to be in a state of constant alertness, concerned for his possessions, his safety, or, in the cramped confines of Ma Cherry’s, his privacy.

  He remained conscious of being a guest in another family’s home, but equally he was aware of their efforts to make him feel welcome. It was true Jarvis still regarded him with less respect than Glen the dog, and of course there was Sarah, who did not accord him as much as that, but on the whole, he was beginning to feel comfortable at No. 52.

  He walked quickly towards the stairs with the intention of warming himself before he got cleaned up for dinner. A fire was always lit in one of the large public rooms on the first floor at this time of day, particularly welcome after the cold breeze that had chilled him on his walk back from Effie Peake’s place.

  As he began to ascend, something shot past his head, an improvised missile that served as warning that Walter and David were on the loose. Raven heard the roar of a war cry as David chased his younger brother down the stairs, excited giggles and screams accompanying their progress as usual. They disappeared into a room below with the inevitable slam of a door, after which the ensuing moment of silence seemed all the more pronounced by contrast.

  It was broken by voices from his intended destination, Mrs Simpson and Mina continuing what sounded like a fraught conversation. The door was ajar and from the unguarded nature of their discussion, he deduced they were heedless of his approach because his tread upon the stairs had been masked by the noise of the children.

  It was Mina he heard first, her tone soft but adamant, as though concerned about being overheard. He felt trapped, conscious that were he to continue his progress, he would be heard and his eavesdropping discovered. Even if it was by accident, people did not readily forgive it when they knew you had happened upon their secrets.

  ‘I think you have become so used to the status Dr Simpson’s good name confers, that you forget how precarious reputations can be when there is scandal in the offing.’

  ‘It is blethers, Mina. Nothing more.’

  ‘You should consider that it’s not just his reputation that is at stake. It’s yours too. He is paying out twelve pounds a year to another woman. Isn’t the obvious question: why?’

  ‘It is an act of charity. Surely no one can cast aspersions over something so noble.’

  ‘In my experience people are happy to cast aspersions over anything when the morality of an action can be called into question. You would be naive if you didn’t anticipate the conclusions that are likely to be drawn. In your interpretation, it is an act of charity. To someone else, it might imply a guilty conscience.’

  ‘That is absurd, Mina. There is nothing of any substance for rumours to attach to.’

  ‘Jessie, James is a man much admired by the ladies of this town, and you shut away in mourning all this time. They rain upon him compliments and affection. Is it so difficult to imagine where that
might lead?’

  ‘I have no control over gossip. What is important is that I know the truth of it.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I would warn you, Mina, to remember beneath whose roof you reside.’

  A door flew open downstairs and the boys exploded from it once again. Raven seized the opportunity to proceed unnoticed to his bedroom. They were joyfully oblivious of the complex ways of adults, and he had been almost as naive. Cut beneath the epidermis in any household and you would surely find that life there was not as harmonious as it appeared on the surface.

  He had only heard a brief exchange, but he recognised what was going on. Mina was trying to gently coax her sister into seeing what was obvious to her and therefore to others. Raven was only too familiar with the spectacle of a wife seeking every possible interpretation that might allow her to escape the most painful of conclusions. He recalled his own mother, a bright and intelligent woman, making herself seem foolish in her desperation to elude the inevitable truth. Her husband had been a drunk and a philanderer. She couldn’t deny the former, for she was confronted with the fact of it in her household almost every night. But it was the nights on which she was spared by his absence about which she had persistently deluded herself.

  Could Raven believe this of Dr Simpson? Unlike his own father, he seemed the perfectly contented family man, available and affectionate around his children where so many others were aloof and distant. But Raven had always to remember that this was Edinburgh, the city whose crest ought to be the head of the Janus: one face for polite society, another behind closed doors.

  Sixteen

  Sarah picked up the shirt, pinching a small amount of the filthy material between the tip of her index finger and thumb. She wished she had a pair of tongs for the job. It looked like Raven had been washing floors or cleaning the grate with it.

  As if.

  The thin cotton, which she presumed had at one point been white, was now grey in colour and streaked with dirt. There were dark splotches on both sleeves that she recognised as blood. One of the sleeves was attempting to part company from the rest of the garment, a tear at the seam having been ineptly repaired at some point.