At this point Raven realised that he hadn’t noticed the sex of the baby; he wouldn’t be able to tell the mother when she woke up whether the child was a boy or a girl. He hoped that she wouldn’t ask.
When the patient did come around, she seemed to be primarily concerned that her ordeal was over. She had evidently not expected a live child to result from this confinement. She showed no emotion when the infant was presented to her, but expressed relief that she had not suffered this time as she had before.
Simpson promised to return in a day or two to see how she was.
‘You would do well to heed Mr Figg’s advice and take pains to avoid another pregnancy,’ he told her softly.
‘Best tell that to my husband,’ she said in reply.
Eighteen
The sounds of disputation once again greeted Raven’s approach to the drawing room as he ascended the stairs, though on this occasion the voices were male. He paused on the threshold, keen to gather what was being discussed by way of forearming himself. He could make out Duncan’s assured tones, sounding as always like he was carrying the Ten Commandments. Raven was in no mood to be lectured to and was thinking about beating a retreat when he heard someone clear their throat behind him. He turned to see Sarah carrying a tray bearing a decanter and glasses.
‘Open the door, if you please, Mr Raven,’ she said, smiling, evidently amused at catching him eavesdropping.
She haunts my very shadow, he thought.
Raven did as he was bid, allowing her to proceed into the room before him. Mrs Simpson and Mina were sitting beside each other on a sofa while the men, Drs Simpson, Duncan and Keith, were gathered round the fireplace.
‘Raven!’ said Duncan, with unaccustomed brightness. ‘Come and join the fray.’
‘What is the subject?’ he replied, wary that Duncan was about to seize an opportunity to make him look uninformed.
‘We are discussing Hahnemann’s theories of similia similibus curantur and infinitesimal doses,’ Duncan chimed.
Like cures like. Duncan would have to try harder than that to catch him out.
‘Homeopathy,’ he replied.
He looked over to where Sarah was pouring out measures of sherry into glasses, hoping that she had witnessed this small triumph. She seemed intent on her task and failed to raise her eyes from the decanter.
‘And what is your impression of it?’ Duncan pressed him, this time with one eyebrow raised, as though waiting for Raven to position himself squarely on the wrong side of this debate.
‘The doctrine that like cures like makes little sense to me,’ Raven said. ‘And as for the notion that repeated dilutions paradoxically increase the efficacy of a solution, I believe my former landlady Mrs Cherry must have been a firm advocate. Her soup often contained only an infinitesimal trace of meat, which according to Hahnemann would provide greater nourishment than a juicy steak.’
Simpson laughed and thumped Raven heartily on the back. He was never at risk of being on the wrong side of this argument, as the professor had made his views clear to his class on many occasions. He liked to recount the story of receiving a box of homeopathic remedies from a friend and giving them to his sons to play with, which of course had led to the medicines being mixed up. The same box had then been passed on to an enthusiastic practitioner, who later reported that he employed them with great success.
‘Some homeopathic remedies are not even taken internally but applied using the technique of olfaction,’ Simpson said, demonstrating by taking a theatrical sniff from his sherry glass. ‘I heard tell of a lady who was subjected to the process,’ he went on. ‘When it came time to settle the bill with her practitioner, she passed the fee before his nose and then put it back into her pocket.’
The professor’s joke was greeted with laughter by everyone, with the familiar exception of Duncan. He looked thin-lipped and impatient for the moment to pass, which was his response to every interruption for laughter. It was as though his mind did not understand the very mechanism of humour, or perhaps saw no need for it.
‘Though at least the consolation of a medicine without effect is that it has no ill effects either,’ suggested George Keith. ‘For there are some utterly abhorrent concoctions foisted upon unwary patients every day. Mercury, for one, is a pestilent and entirely pernicious drug. And Syme is sceptical about almost every internal medicine with the exception of rhubarb and soda.’
At that moment, the door opened and John Beattie strode into the room with his over-eager birdlike gait, bringing with him a scent of tobacco and a far stronger smell of cologne.
‘Gregory’s powders,’ he said, responding to Keith’s last remark as though he had been present the whole time. ‘I prescribe it frequently. But then I hardly ever leave the bedside of a patient without providing a new bottle or prescription of some sort. Dr Simpson, good evening.’
Simpson got to his feet and introduced his guest, who shook each offered hand with accustomed grace.
Raven was impressed with the assuredness of Beattie’s manner. Though he was not the tallest of fellows, he thrust himself into company in contrast to Raven’s instinct, which was to shrink against the side-lines. Raven noted the curiosity and instinctive suspicion in Duncan’s expression at this unheralded interloper and felt all the warmer towards Beattie as a result. The man had looked smart enough even spattered with blood and in his day clothes, but dressed for dinner, Beattie in his dandified pomp was a sight to behold. As Raven’s mother might have put it, he was wearing the clothes; the clothes weren’t wearing him.
The effect was not lost on Mina, who rose from the sofa and approached him, her hand extended. Beattie bowed and kissed the offered fingers.
‘I find the scent of your cologne to be quite divine,’ Mina said. ‘Did you purchase it from Gianetti’s? In George Street?’
‘I did not. This scent is Farina’s original eau de cologne, imported from Europe. Bergamot and sandalwood with top notes of citrus.’
‘How exotic,’ said Mina, clearly impressed.
‘The sense of smell is the one most closely related to memory,’ he added with a smile. ‘One always hopes to be remembered.’
Raven cast another glance at Duncan, who looked unsettled, as though the new arrival represented a threat to his supremacy. His brow furrowed as Beattie accepted a glass of sherry from Sarah.
‘I intend to be remembered,’ Duncan said, raising his glass in a toast, ‘for something more significant and more popular than even Gregory’s powders. To memorable contributions.’
‘To being remembered,’ Beattie replied, raising his own glass and draining it. He turned to face Mina again, denying Duncan the opportunity to elaborate on his grand plans. ‘I cannot recall the last time I encountered so many beautiful women in one room,’ he said, taking in all of the ladies present.
Mrs Simpson smiled, Sarah snorted and Mina demurely lowered her eyes to the hem of her dress, etiquette precluding any direct acknowledgement of the compliment.
Raven watched their charmed reactions and realised with a certain sadness that though he might learn much from Beattie as a doctor, there were certain talents that simply could not be taught.
Beattie sat beside Mina at dinner, which surprised Raven. He had thought their new guest might wish to seize the opportunity to make a direct impression upon Dr Simpson. It had not occurred to him that Beattie might take a genuine interest in the professor’s sister-in-law, who was on the edge of spinsterhood, but perhaps her age liberated Beattie from concerns that his attention might be misconstrued. They spoke freely and at length, Beattie seeking her opinions on everything from women’s fashions to literature and poetry.
He had perhaps sought to impress her with his wide-ranging knowledge of the latter only to find that Mina had a familiarity with Byron and Shelley which easily surpassed his own. And rather than withdraw from the conversation now that his superiority had been challenged, Beattie seemed to relish it all the more, and the two discussed the relative merits of
the romantic poets as though they were alone at the table and had been intimates for some time.
Beattie interrupted their conversation only briefly to express his admiration for the Simpsons’ cook. ‘Sublime!’ he pronounced as he cleared his plate.
Raven did not feel he was in a position to make an informed contribution, given the measly portion he had been served. He could identify but two chunks of mutton amongst the carrots on his plate. This amount of food would be insufficient for the parrot, never mind a fully grown man. Raven noticed that everyone else had received a more generous portion than he, and tried to catch Sarah’s eye as she passed between sideboard and table with various dishes, but she seemed intent on ignoring him.
During the serving of dessert (of which again Raven received a homeopathic helping), Mina continued to hold Beattie’s attention until his host intervened and dragged him back into the general conversation.
‘Dr Beattie here was previously availing me of his ambitions for opening a hydropathic spa,’ Simpson announced, a familiar spark of mischief in his eye. ‘Before you arrived, we were deep in discussion about unregulated practices and I was wondering where you might draw the line between physic and quackery.’
‘I remain unconvinced about the benefits of homeopathy,’ Beattie replied, which made Raven wonder if he too had paused outside to eavesdrop before making his entrance. ‘It seems to be based upon a somewhat flimsy premise and yet it has proven to be quite popular.’
‘I know many who swear by it,’ said Mina, in support of this last statement.
‘Indeed,’ Beattie said, turning back to her. ‘And that is why it would be premature to dismiss it entirely, Miss Grindlay.’
‘Professor Christison refers to homeopathic remedies as “drops of nothingness, powders of nonentity”,’ Duncan added, his tone as tactlessly dismissive as Beattie’s had been polite.
Mina looked at him as though he had just blasphemed in some way. Raven could imagine Dr Duncan being struck off Mina’s mental list of potential suitors, Beattie’s name being added instead, and perhaps underlined. Several times.
‘What about phrenology?’ Simpson asked.
‘That the shape of the skull can provide information regarding the personality? I think that there may be something to it,’ Beattie replied. ‘There are many medical men who support it, Professor Gregory among them.’
‘I’m not sure that the belief of others makes for a convincing argument,’ Simpson chided gently. ‘While it is true that many eminent medical men are members of the phrenological society, that in itself does not convince me.’
‘Quite so,’ said Duncan. ‘No absurdity is ever too groundless to find supporters.’
Beattie looked momentarily at a loss, as though slighted by the harshness of Duncan’s rebuttal. Then his countenance cleared and his smile returned, his equanimity restored.
‘Whoever determines to deceive the world may be sure of finding people to be deceived,’ he said.
Duncan smiled thinly in reply, satisfied that this served as some form of surrender.
Raven drank more of his wine. He had consumed several glasses of the doctor’s claret by this point (and not that much to eat) and was beginning to enjoy himself.
‘The waters of quackery may be foul,’ he said, ‘but there’s money to be made if you’re prepared to swim.’
His contribution was not so much in support of Beattie as in solidarity against a common foe.
‘You would risk drowning, my boy,’ said Simpson. ‘A reputation thus tarnished could never be recovered.’
At this point Sarah entered the room with a pot of coffee and bent slightly to pour. Raven found that his eye was drawn to her head, although any detail of its shape was hidden by her white cap. What would an examination of her skull reveal? Combativeness? Lack of propriety?
As she turned to leave the room, he noticed that a small ringlet of honey-coloured hair had escaped the confines of her cap and was delicately hovering at the nape of her neck. He wondered absently what her hair would smell like, and realised, perhaps for the first time, how young she must be.
Raven took his coffee and stood by the window, mindful of the parrot, which was eyeing him suspiciously from its perch. Beattie appeared at his side, ostensibly examining the flamboyant but cantankerous bird, clearly wishing to talk away from the rest of the room.
‘It’s easy for him to say,’ Beattie stated quietly.
‘What is?’
‘Pontificating about how a doctor might make money. There is little sacrifice in taking the moral high ground when your coffers are overflowing.’
Raven wondered if Beattie had guessed about the parlous state of his own finances.
‘I admit,’ Raven replied, ‘I might find it difficult to remain noble to my principles should some rich and credulous lady offer to reward me for harmless but useless therapy. And if it made her feel better purely because she believed it efficacious, then was the therapy truly useless? Perhaps that question would be enough to salve my conscience.’
‘I have a proposition that would require you to broach no such ethical dilemmas,’ Beattie stated. ‘A patient who requires a certain procedure but is reluctant to submit without the benefit of ether. I told her I had found someone who could administer it.’
‘Me?’ Raven asked, barely daring to believe it.
‘Of course. As an associate of the great Dr Simpson, your services would attract a handsome fee.’
‘A junior associate and hardly an expert.’
‘I’m sure you are proficient enough. What is there to lose?’
Raven caught sight of his reflection in the black of the window. The wound on his cheek tingled as if to remind him what indeed he had to lose.
‘How handsome?’ he asked.
Nineteen
The following day Raven was granted respite from the chaos of the morning clinic, as part of his apprenticeship was to include regular duties at the Royal Maternity Hospital. Unfortunately, it would have taken a higher power than Dr Simpson to offer him respite from the piercing headache that was plaguing his every step. He would admit he had drunk of the professor’s claret with uncommon gusto in celebration of Beattie’s offer and the imminent prospect of making back the money he owed to Flint. However, the tolerable ill effects of this indulgence had been brutally compounded after breakfast, when Duncan compelled Raven’s assistance in his researches.
Raven was initially curious about Duncan shedding his reluctance to involve him directly in his work, and wondered whether his contributions the previous night had raised him in the young prodigy’s estimations. Then he discovered that Duncan had assembled a fresh batch of potential anaesthetic agents, and Raven’s role was little above that of poison taster; or poison sniffer, to be strictly accurate. Duncan had wafted various vapours beneath his nose, none of which precipitated any effect greater than mild dizziness and a cumulative pounding in his brain.
The Maternity Hospital was situated within Milton House on the Canongate, a Georgian mansion that had either seen better days or had been built with the intention of warning off unwanted visitors with the threat of impending collapse. He was due to meet Dr Ziegler, the hospital’s surgeon, and given the pounding in Raven’s head, he hoped the man was more a Simpson than a Syme.
The door was answered by a tall woman in a starched cap, who, on looking him up and down, gave the impression she was about to fetch a stick with which to chase him off. Clearly his beard was not growing thick or fast enough to effect the transformation he had hoped for.
‘Mr Will Raven. For Dr Ziegler. I’m Dr Simpson’s apprentice. I believe I am expected.’
Raven hoped that the mention of his employer would smooth his passage into the hospital, past its sullen gatekeeper. The woman made no reply but let her eyes drift downwards, where her gaze remained. Raven felt compelled to do the same and found himself examining his own footwear. His boots looked as they usually did, a thin layer of mud clinging to the sides: unsurprisin
g as he had made the journey from Queen Street on foot.
‘Mrs Stevenson. Matron,’ she said. ‘I’ll thank you to wipe your feet before you come in.’
Raven wagered that she wasn’t the type to thank anyone for much else. She stood with her arms folded, watching as he applied his feet to the boot scraper at the door. Once satisfied with his efforts, she stood aside and let him enter.
‘Dr Ziegler is in the ward, making his rounds.’
She indicated a door to the left, then disappeared into a room on the right, closing the door to leave Raven alone in the hallway. He proceeded as directed, becoming aware of the faint aroma of lemons mixed with something earthier. It was a considerable improvement upon the foetid stink he associated with the wards of the Royal Infirmary.
A strong breeze was gusting through as all of the windows were open – an attempt to blow away the spectre of puerperal fever perhaps, the scourge of any such institution – and consequently the fireplace at the end of the room had a good fire going, helping to take the chill out of the wind. There was a row of beds against one wall and a large table in the centre of the room where a small, dark, spectacled man was writing in a ledger. Without lifting his eyes from the volume, he raised a palm as he heard Raven approach, by way of telling him to wait.
Raven complied silently, the question of a Simpson or a Syme now tipping towards the latter.
Ziegler finished what he was writing and looked up, a brightness about his features. ‘Keeping the casebook up to date,’ he said, closing the ledger and placing his hand reverentially upon it. ‘Every delivery must be entered. Accurate information is the key to unlocking many a mystery. Now, would you care to take a tour, Mr Raven?’
Ziegler proceeded to show Raven around, evidently proud of the small hospital and its collection of expectant or recently delivered mothers. To a woman they were poor souls whose personal circumstances made a home confinement impossible.
‘We do good work here,’ Ziegler said as he showed Raven into the empty delivery room, ‘but our funding is precarious. Charitable giving is frequently inhibited by moral concerns.’
The Way of All Flesh Page 12
