The Way of All Flesh

by Ambrose Parry

  None of the people he had exhausted himself to protect were even aware of his efforts. That they had never truly been in danger because of Sarah’s earlier mishap was something she decided she should not immediately share with him, though he would have to be told.

  With the hour drawing on and her own services seeming superfluous in the face of this new distraction, she followed him out a few moments later, ascending the stairs at his back. He heard her and stopped just before reaching his room, turning to see who was there.

  ‘Would you like some supper, Mr Raven?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t eat yet.’

  He managed a weak smile. ‘That would be most welcome.’

  His voice had a tremor to it. She realised he must be cold now, and would get colder.

  ‘You need to get out of those clothes at once. You’ll catch a fever. Come on,’ she said, following him into his room, where she lit a gas lamp. She turned to help him remove his jacket, which felt twice its normal weight.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable . . .’ he began, then seemed to surrender to her assistance, lacking the strength or the will to resist.

  ‘You really need to get yourself a proper coat, Mr Raven. Before winter truly bites.’

  ‘I know.’

  She lifted the damp garment from his shoulders, her gaze drawn by how his hair was stuck flat about his face.

  ‘You ran all the way from the college?’

  ‘Yes, but that was not even the worst part of my evening. I watched a young woman die in agony before me at the Maternity Hospital. And I am certain she died the same way as Evie: racked with spasms, and pregnant too.’

  ‘“Racked with spasms”: the way Miss Mann described one who had taken strychnine?’

  ‘Precisely. But what is confounding is that earlier today, I met McLevy, and he said that there was no trace of poison in Rose Campbell’s remains. More confounding still, that neither was she found to be pregnant.’

  Sarah could well understand Raven’s consternation. One part of this made sense to her, however.

  ‘I have been reading about strychnine in Christison’s Treatise. An added boon to any malefactor is that there is no test for it. It would not be traceable in any post-mortem examination. So it remains entirely possible that strychnine was responsible for Rose’s death.’

  ‘Yes, but there is an irrefutable post-mortem test for pregnancy, and McLevy insisted no baby was found.’

  This part, Sarah had to concede, truly was confounding.

  ‘Milly was not mistaken about this,’ she argued. ‘It is the very reason Rose feared she would be dismissed.’

  ‘McLevy insists otherwise, and they cannot both be right.’

  But as Raven spoke, Sarah realised there existed a reason that they could.

  ‘Perhaps she was not pregnant by the time she went into the water. What if she successfully rid herself of her unwanted burden? Strychnine brings on spasms. Could it have been used in a medicine to bring on the contractions of premature labour, which in Rose’s case it succeeded, only for her to die later?’

  Raven’s eyes widened. ‘It is my suspicion that the girl who died tonight took something to get rid of her child. Perhaps Evie did too, but in each of their cases, it killed them before it could have any other effect.’

  ‘Who was this girl? Could she have any connection to the Reverend Grissom?’

  Raven wore a look of regret. ‘I know nothing about her. Not even her full name, only that she was known as Kitty. I know not where she lived, other than that it was near enough for a man to have carried her there. But in the Old Town, that radius might include a thousand dwellings.’

  His voice wavered again, shivers taking him. Even his shirt was wet through. Without asking, she began to unbutton it for him.

  Sarah had seen Raven fully naked when he first arrived and was in need of a bath. This felt different, now that she knew something of him. She recalled her words – whatever you’ve got, I’ve seen it before – and though she had now indeed seen him before, this time her eyes wished to dwell.

  Her hand brushed his chest as she tugged at his wet shirt, the cloth sticking to skin. She felt something surge inside herself, and the insistence of it unnerved her.

  As she undid the final button, she sensed a stirring close to where she touched him, and belatedly understood what was meant by the expression ‘proud below the navel’.

  Raven flinched away from her in response, presumably because he could not flinch away from himself.

  Sarah stepped back from him, looking to the floor.

  ‘You must be starving,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d best get down to the kitchen and fetch you something to eat.’

  He said nothing as she departed. She waited a moment outside his door, as she felt so light-headed as to fear she might trip on her descent.

  Upon reaching the kitchen, Sarah took a plate and gathered some leftover pie, a slice of ham and a hunk of bread. She held it in her left hand, grabbed a bottle of ale with her right, then made for the stairs once again.

  When she reached the top landing, she found Raven deeply unconscious, and no chemical agent had been necessary to produce the effect.

  Forty-Two

  Sarah entered Kennington and Jenner’s on Princes Street and was immediately grateful to be out of the cold. Her callused hands were cracked and sore, the result of washing household linens the day before. Her hands were always bad in the winter. The cold made everything worse.

  The shop was warm and inviting, a place she had always enjoyed spending time, fancying what she might buy if she only had the money. It was always brightly lit either by daylight streaming in through the windows that lined the front of the shop or from the large gas chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. Bolts of cloth in every conceivable colour were stacked on shelves, smaller samples of fabric arrayed across the counters.

  The shop had been established by two draper’s assistants who had found themselves out of work following an unauthorised leave of absence to attend the races at Musselburgh. In opening their own store they had been determined to provide the ladies of Edinburgh with the finest silks and linens, previously only available in London. They had thus far been successful in their endeavours, having recently acquired the neighbouring premises to expand their textile emporium.

  Sarah liked this story; ordinary people making their own way in the world. It gave her hope. Or at least it used to. Now Kennington and Jenner’s would always remind her of the last time she saw Rose Campbell, a young woman cut down in her prime, all her potential lost. It would make her think of the husk Rose had become even before she died: ground down by a life of servitude, a dead-eyed and depleted version of the girl whose confidence and energy Sarah once found intimidating.

  She gazed at the fabrics that were, as always, elaborately displayed. Today yards of expensive material in a variety of vibrant hues had been pinned to a high point on one wall and allowed to cascade down onto one of the counters as though a flood had occurred. She used to daydream about the goods on offer in this place. Now they seemed an affront, and not merely because the limitations placed upon her meant she would never own such luxuries. They served to remind her that it wasn’t only those women below stairs who would never be permitted to realise their potential. Those above could aspire to no more than marriage and motherhood, and thus were encouraged to fuss over fripperies as they concerned themselves with how they might adorn themselves the better to please men.

  Sarah would have turned and departed from the place if she could, its previous pleasant associations tarnished, but her time was not her own to command and she was obliged to go wherever she was sent. She had been dispatched by Mina to collect a length of black velvet, ordered the week before, which was to be made into a cape to go with her new evening gown.

  She proceeded towards the main counter, but as she approached it she became aware of a familiar smell, of citrus and sandalwood, though it was a fragrance that seemed incongruous here among women’s finery. This
, she realised, was because she associated it with a man, and there indeed he stood at a sales counter, in conversation with the assistant.

  Sarah loitered behind a pillar, reluctant to be seen and perhaps recognised. Beattie never struck her as the type to notice much about servants beyond the pair of hands that was handing him something, but having accompanied Mina so often, if he was going to remember any housemaid, it would be her. His attention was upon the counter, however, so she felt emboldened to peer around the pillar, which was close enough for her to overhear the exchange taking place.

  Beattie was turning a pair of gloves over in his hands upon the counter top.

  ‘These are the very best that we have, sir. Kid, although we have silk and cotton too if you would prefer to see those.’

  ‘It has to be kid. Silk and cotton are a little vulgar, don’t you think?’

  Sarah watched the assistant nodding in agreement, beaming pleasantly, flattered by Beattie’s easy charm.

  She looked again at her own hands, turning from white to red in the warmth of the shop. She knew that she ought to be reassured by what she was witnessing. Buying expensive gifts was, after all, the way a man was expected to show his affection, and Mina would be delighted with such a token. Yet Sarah felt a persistent unease. On paper, when all was totted up, he seemed eminently suitable, but she couldn’t help thinking there was something beneath the veneer that was not as it appeared.

  Whenever she raised her concerns about how sketchy their knowledge of him was, Mina was ready with excuses. Little could be known as to his background, as both his parents were dead. Beattie’s father had been a merchant, his unfortunate early demise much lamented. His mother hailed from just outside Edinburgh, on the Morningside. She was survived by her brother, one Charles Latimer, who still lived in the family home he had inherited in Canaan Lands. He was a frail man, more or less confined to his house these days, but it was furnished with large gardens and had views to the surrounding countryside, which made it an agreeable confinement. ‘The uncle has a large hothouse,’ Mina had said, ‘wherein he grows exotic fruit and flowers. I have been promised orchids and pineapples.’

  Such treasures, Sarah noted, had so far not been forthcoming.

  Mr Latimer’s home sounded very much like Millbank, where Professor Syme lived, half an hour’s walk from Princes Street but far removed from the smoke and bustle of the city (and more significantly from his patients). It had extensive gardens and beautiful views towards Blackford Hill. Sarah knew this because Mrs Lyndsay had a relative who worked there.

  Mrs Lyndsay often made comparisons between the regime at Millbank and that of Queen Street, trying to inculcate a sense of gratitude in Sarah about her place of work. She was conscious of Sarah’s restlessness and talk of wanting more than she had. To Mrs Lyndsay’s mind, this lack of appreciation was likely to provoke some form of divine intervention that would see Sarah much reduced in circumstances by way of punishment.

  Sarah remained unconcerned about providential retribution, being more troubled by Mina’s mention of the debt currently being accrued by Beattie as he struggled to establish himself in medical practice in Edinburgh.

  ‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ Mina had said. ‘It is often how things are in the beginning. Dr Simpson himself owed a considerable sum of money at the time he married my sister.’

  Perhaps, Sarah had thought, but Beattie is no Simpson.

  Sarah watched him as the assistant wrapped his purchase. Oblivious of any onlooker, his gaze lingered upon the girl’s behind as she bent to retrieve paper and string from a drawer beneath the counter. Sarah had never seen him look at Mina that way, but it was Mina he was buying gloves for, so perhaps she should be assured that it was this way round.

  When the assistant presented the bill, Beattie told her to add it to his account. He then picked up his package and made for the door with an unhurried gait, the smell of his cologne lingering long after his departure.

  Forty-Three

  Raven doubted there had been a more crowded meeting of the Medico-Chirurgical Society. News of chloroform had already begun to spread throughout the city’s medical men, though the knowledge that Simpson and Syme were both to be present no doubt played a part too. The prospect of an argument between these two known adversaries would often draw a crowd.

  Though this was to be the first formal announcement of his discovery, Simpson was making no secret of his new anaesthetic agent, and had used it in an obstetric case a mere four days after the experiments at Queen Street. He was called to see a Mrs Jane Carstairs in Albany Street, the wife of a physician recently retired from the Indian Medical Service. A difficult labour was anticipated due to a previous confinement having lasted three days and ending with the baby’s head having to be broken up to permit extraction. (Raven frequently had to remind himself that many infants did in fact make it into the world alive and fully intact.)

  Mrs Carstairs was persuaded to try the chloroform when her pains became severe.

  ‘I’ve taken it myself,’ Simpson assured her. ‘It is really quite pleasant.’

  Half a teaspoon of liquid was poured onto a pocket handkerchief, which he rolled into a funnel shape and held over her nose and mouth. She quickly drifted off into what appeared to be a comfortable sleep, and the child was born without difficulty some twenty-five minutes later.

  The crying of the newborn had failed to rouse the sleeping mother, which caused Raven to feel a pang of anxiety at the memory of Caroline Graseby. His hands became sweaty, his mouth dry and he found himself offering a silent prayer to a God he was convinced had no interest in helping him. Punishing him, yes. Helping him, no.

  The placenta was expelled and the child removed by the nurse to another room before the mother began to waken. But waken she did, to Raven’s profound relief. When she had returned to full consciousness she expressed her gratitude at having been provided with such a restful sleep. ‘I now feel quite restored and better able to deal with the trial ahead of me,’ she said, which to Raven did not sound like the most optimistic view of motherhood. Then he noticed the look of concern spreading upon her face.

  ‘I fear that my sleeping has somehow stopped the pains.’

  Simpson smiled and patted her hand. ‘Your trial is at an end,’ he said.

  He called to the nurse in the next room, who appeared with the newly bathed and swaddled child, to the mother’s astonishment.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ she said. ‘It is a miracle. She is here and I have suffered hardly at all.’

  ‘Perhaps you should name her Anaesthesia,’ Simpson suggested.

  At that juncture, she had discovered a limit to her gratitude.

  The meeting was called to order by the society’s president, Professor William Pulteney Alison, and the audience began to settle themselves into their seats. Raven noticed Henry in the crowd and quickly beckoned his friend sit with him. He had spotted Beattie also but failed to catch his eye in the throng.

  ‘Is this new discovery truly better than ether?’ Henry asked as he sat down.

  ‘So much so that even Syme might be convinced to use it.’

  Henry looked sceptical, as Raven knew he might. This was a long-standing source of frustration. ‘Then may he set the rest of the dominoes to fall,’ he replied. ‘There are still surgeons who believe that the patient’s pain serves as a useful guide to their endeavours. In my opinion, this merely demonstrates that they lack a sound knowledge of anatomy and the appropriate skill.’

  ‘Simpson receives letters from the outraged on a regular basis.’

  ‘Yes, you told me about the Reverend Grissom and his leaflets. The primeval curse and all that.’

  ‘In fact, the religious types tend not to write. The most vociferous correspondents are other obstetricians. Barnes, Lee and Gream in London; Meigs in Philadelphia.’

  ‘And what is their objection?’

  ‘God, nature and bad language.’

  Henry looked at him askance. ‘Please explain.�
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  ‘Pain in labour is natural, a manifestation of the life force, an ordinance from the Almighty and therefore painless childbirth is unnatural and improper. Under the influence of anaesthesia, some women have been heard to use obscene and disgusting language – words that they should never have had the opportunity to hear – which of course means that it is wrong ever to employ it.’

  Henry began to laugh. ‘I can’t imagine any of the women of my acquaintance sharing such concerns. What does Simpson say about it?’

  ‘That the same logic would suggest it is unnatural to wear clothes, to use condiments in aid of digestion, and the stagecoach to relieve ourselves of the fatigue induced by walking.’

  Dr Simpson stood and walked to the podium. Silence descended upon the crowded hall.

  ‘I wish to direct the attention of the members of the society to a new respirable anaesthetic agent which I have discovered,’ he began.

  Simpson proceeded to outline the events which had led to the successful trial of chloroform and stressed the many advantages it had over ether: the relatively small dose required; a more rapid and persistent action; a more agreeable smell; and that no special equipment was necessary for its administration.

  When he concluded his presentation, there was much discussion amongst the assembled throng, many of those present asking if they could try it for themselves. A bottle of the stuff appeared and chloroform was liberally applied to several handkerchiefs, which were then passed round. One arrived in Henry’s hand and he put it to his nose.

  ‘Don’t let it touch your skin,’ Raven warned him, indicating a tender spot beneath the bridge of his own nose. ‘Direct contact results in irritation, like a burn. I learned that the hard way.’