Henry inhaled but there was an insufficient dose on the handkerchief to produce anything more than a pleasant feeling of intoxication. The effect was nonetheless enough that Henry took a seat, which cleared a line of sight between Raven and Beattie. He began striding across the room, intent upon sampling the stuff himself. James Duncan made his way over also, no doubt keen to claim his role in the new agent’s discovery.
‘May I?’ Beattie asked, though his hand was already gripping the bottle.
‘By all means,’ Raven replied, watching him pour an injudicious dose onto the cloth.
He considered warning them about direct contact, but held his tongue, some bitter instinct eager to inflict damage upon Duncan for a change. More surprising was an ambivalence about Beattie inflicting a mark upon his otherwise unblemished face. Raven was not sure where this unpleasant sentiment came from; perhaps a lingering anger over his scar, or a latent resentment at Beattie having dragged him into the Graseby incident. (That was how he thought of it – the Graseby incident. He was unable even within the confines of his own head to label it for what it was: a death for which he was responsible.)
Beattie having over-soaked the handkerchief, the vapours hit him before he might press it to his face. He lay himself down on a bench as around him others staggered and fell over. Beattie slept peacefully for several minutes, during which time Raven found himself making a careful study of his deceptively youthful features, contemplating how old he truly was, and what events had shaped him. Raven wondered also at his greater ability to deal with their shared disaster. Granted, the larger part of the blame lay upon Raven for attempting something beyond his experience, but Beattie seemed untroubled by remorse while Raven was incessantly tortured by what had occurred that day. Was he really as unperturbed as he appeared? Was such detachment a good thing in a doctor? A necessity for self-preservation? Perhaps it was.
He knew it was unworthy, given all Beattie had done for him, but again he felt a sting of envy towards the man: of what he had and of all he was going to have. No doubt he would soon marry Mina, which as Sarah noted, would instantly confer a considerable advantage in his field. That was how it went: a doctor from a wealthy background would swoop in, trade on his association with the great Dr Simpson and accumulate a wealthy client list on the back of it. Raven, by comparison, would merely pass through the house and be gone, replaced by another apprentice once he had served his time, then promptly forgotten.
Henry got to his feet, regarding the host of sleeping doctors around him with some amusement. ‘I do hope I can come to Queen Street some evening and participate in the experiments there,’ he said.
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Raven replied, thinking about the prostrate forms lying under the dining-room table.
‘Why?’
‘There is a want of caution which at times disturbs me. I have no wish to sacrifice myself at the altar of scientific progress.’
Duncan scoffed. ‘Boldness and a certain want of caution are necessary for scientific progress to be made,’ he said.
‘I’m not convinced lives should be put at risk,’ Raven replied.
‘We should certainly be endeavouring to make our methods more scientific,’ Henry suggested. ‘With the use of statistics and experimentation, we would soon get rid of the quacks, charlatans and snake-oil salesmen once and for all.’
‘But there must always be room for a certain degree of resourcefulness, inventiveness, ingenuity,’ Duncan argued. ‘And the march of progress should not be restrained by faint hearts.’
Raven looked at him, wondering if this statement was general or making reference to particular circumstances.
‘Simpson likes to think of medicine as more than pure science,’ he countered. ‘There must also be empathy, concern, a human connection.’
‘I suggest that both elements are required,’ offered Henry. ‘Scientific principles married to creativity. Science and art.’
If it is an art, it is at times a dark one, Raven thought, though he chose to keep this observation to himself.
Forty-Four
John Beattie was in Dr Simpson’s study, an unusually sincere expression upon his face as he sat opposite the professor. Sarah had brought in a pot of tea and was prolonging the pouring of it in order to ascertain what was being discussed, as the mood suggested something of great import.
She often thought that the household’s preoccupation with tea-drinking provided her with untrammelled access to important conversations: hers was such a familiar presence that it was sometimes as though they all ceased to see her. However, there was only so much time to be taken in the pouring of tea without breaking this spell, and Sarah was forced to leave just as Dr Simpson tantalisingly stated: ‘You will of course have to write to her father in Liverpool, but in truth I can foresee no objection.’
Sarah had to stifle a gasp as she left the room. This could mean only one thing. She hovered just outside the door in her determination to hear what else was being said.
‘What of Mr Latimer?’ Dr Simpson continued. ‘Is he happy with the arrangement?’
‘My uncle is terribly frail at the moment and his physician has proscribed excitement of any kind. A visit is therefore out of the question, but a carefully worded letter has been written and sent. I expect a reply imminently. I have no doubt he will be entirely in agreement with the match. It will do much for his morale, in fact.’
Sarah’s joy on Mina’s behalf was short-lived, giving way instantly to suspicion. How convenient that the old man could receive no visitors. She was also annoyed at these discussions taking place in the absence of Mina herself. It was as though she was the inanimate part of a business transaction, a consignment of whale oil or shares in a coal mine – profits could not be guaranteed but the prospects were good.
Sarah was so intent upon hearing what was being said on the other side of the door that she did not hear an approach from behind her, and consequently jumped at the sound of someone clearing his throat.
‘What are you doing, Miss Fisher?’ Raven said with open amusement, though from the merciful quietness of his tone it was clear he knew precisely what she was doing.
Sarah scowled at him and put her finger to her lips. She turned back to the door to listen again but the sound of footsteps on the stairs put a definitive end to her eavesdropping.
She pulled Raven into an adjoining room to avoid them being seen. They stood in silence, waiting for whoever ascended the staircase to pass, her hands on his lapels. She was sharply aware of his proximity. His breathing seemed loud in her ears and she sensed the heat coming from him. He smelled clean, of soap, and his clothes had benefited from being properly laundered and mended. His overall appearance had improved considerably in his time at Queen Street, in fact. His face had lost its gauntness, having filled out from regular food. An image of him naked in his bath on that first day came to mind, and Sarah felt her cheeks flush at the memory. She was glad that he was unlikely to notice: as the room was unoccupied, the lamps had not been lit.
She realised she was clinging on to him and let go, embarrassed.
‘Care to tell me what is so compelling?’ Raven asked.
‘It’s Beattie. He has asked for Mina’s hand.’
‘Well, we all knew that was coming.’
He seemed oddly regretful about this, and yet resigned to it.
‘I don’t like it,’ she stated.
‘It is hardly a matter for you or me whether we like it or not.’
‘I have my concerns. There is a whiff of deceit about that man. I can sense it.’
‘Are you still suspicious that he did not tell Mina about this Julia? Because it is hardly a damning omission. What woman would wish the ghost of another haunting her marriage?’
Sarah felt a surge of irritation. ‘He hasn’t given her the gloves,’ she said.
‘What gloves? What are you talking about?’
Sarah tutted at her own impatience. She had sought to clarify things for hi
m, but only succeeded in confusing him further.
‘I saw him buying ladies’ gloves and assumed they were a gift for Mina, but he has not given them to her.’
‘Perhaps he intends to give them to her at a later date.’
‘Perhaps he intends to give them to someone else. And there have been no orchids. Or pineapples for that matter.’
‘Sarah, you are making little sense.’
‘He promised gifts from his uncle’s hothouse and they too have failed to arrive.’
‘What is it exactly that you suspect?’
Sarah had no ready answer for him. There was something about Beattie that troubled her, but she could not put it into words.
‘And anyway, what can you do about it?’ he asked.
Looking back, Sarah might have left it at that, but the assumption that she was powerless lit a fire under her.
Why it burned the hotter for coming from Raven was a question she did not wish to dwell upon.
Forty-Five
The final outcome of any sequence of events can turn on many pivots: there is always a multiplicity of nodes, intersections in a fragile system of happenstance whereby the slightest divergence at one would have altered all. The fate of chloroform and the mystery of Evie’s death were intertwined in just such a system, and either could have easily been diverted down a path to a dead end by the slightest whim of chance.
For instance, Professor Miller was equally enthusiastic about his Queen Street neighbour’s discovery and was keen to be among the first to use it in a surgical case. A messenger had arrived at No. 52 the day after the Carstairs case, looking for Simpson to administer chloroform to a patient suffering from a strangulated hernia at the Infirmary. Unfortunately, the doctor was not at home and his whereabouts unknown, prompting Raven to once more lament the lack of an appointment book, as well as to wonder if the refusal to keep one was a deliberate tactic to hide the doctor’s more clandestine calls. Several students, including Raven, were dispatched to find him, but to no avail. Sarah even suggested Raven stand in for the professor. He scoffed at this proposal but was secretly pleased that she thought him capable of such a thing.
Professor Miller was forced to proceed without any anaesthesia, as the surgery could not wait. Upon the first incision, the patient fainted and could not be revived. He died with the operation unfinished. If chloroform had been administered, it would have been blamed. If Raven had administered it, so would he.
Dr Simpson posited that it was fortunate he could not be found on this particular occasion. The damage to chloroform’s reputation at this early juncture could have been irreparable. Raven felt obliged to comment that this was surely no justification for not keeping an appointment book.
Though it was not ultimately crucial in terms of the information it imparted, Raven would have reason of his own to thank serendipity, given how easily a particular encounter that occurred shortly after this might never have taken place.
It was amidst the chaos of the morning clinic, such sessions becoming steadily more crowded as the weather grew colder. Raven emerged from his consulting room to summon his next patient and found himself confronted by Mitchell, the burly individual who had conveyed poor Kitty in his arms but left without conveying much else. Had Raven been delayed a little longer by the previous patient, or had George Keith finished with his but ten seconds sooner, Mitchell might have passed through and been gone again without Raven seeing him.
It had been a hectic – if exciting – time since the night their paths last crossed, given it had been the same night Simpson discovered the effects of chloroform. The matter of Kitty’s death was seldom far from Raven’s mind, but opportunities to investigate further had been limited. Not only was he hard-pressed to find time away from his duties, but a greater factor was his reluctance to traverse the Old Town other than via the safety of Simpson’s carriage. He knew that Flint’s men would be looking for him with redoubled interest now, and in certain cases with vengeance on their minds. It seemed reasonable to fear that Flint might even wish to make an example of him.
Raven had briefly happened upon Peggy, who had shared lodgings with Evie at Mrs Peake’s house. He asked if she had heard of a girl named Kitty, but was sent away with a flea in his ear when he further explained that they shared a profession. ‘We don’t all know each other,’ she scolded him. ‘We’re not all friends, or some sisterhood of hoors.’
Mitchell stood clutching his cap in much the same posture he had done before. When he looked up, his expression betrayed that he recognised Raven, though a degree of puzzlement indicated further that he did not remember from where.
Raven showed him into the seclusion of his consulting room and let him outline his complaint, his uncomfortable hobbling gait providing an overture.
He rolled up his trouser leg and showed Raven a long cut, slightly swollen and weeping pus. ‘I cut it upon a splintered board about a week ago. I thought it just needed time to heal, but what started as a scab has turned into this.’
Raven immediately thought of the preparation Sarah had given him for his face when first he arrived at Queen Street. He said nothing of that quite yet, however.
‘Mr Mitchell, I work also at the Maternity Hospital. You were the gentleman who so kindly carried a stricken woman to us recently, weren’t you? Kitty, you said her name was.’
He looked on his guard. ‘Yes. I gather it did not go well.’
‘No, sadly we were unable to do anything for her. I need to know who she was, where she lived. Can you tell me from where you carried her? Or the name of the girl you were with, that I might find her?’
Mitchell sat back in his seat, folding his arms. Raven had anticipated this. It was one thing to act upon the spur of the moment, quite another to speak of one’s dealings with whores.
‘I am not sure I recall the details of that night,’ Mitchell said, ‘and nor do I particularly wish to.’
Raven nodded, as though understanding. ‘A pity. Just as I am not sure I recall the formula for the ointment that would surely cure your wound.’
A few hours later, Raven was standing inside a ramshackle building on Calton Road being confronted by a woman about whom he had been warned by Mitchell. He had come here on his way to the Maternity Hospital, reasoning that not only would it be easier to spot the Weasel and Gargantua in daylight, but also less likely they would attempt to assail him in full view of a busy thoroughfare.
The madam of the bawdy house to which he had been directed was a corpulent and intimidatingly ugly woman by the name of Miss Nadia. Raven could not imagine her ever having worked on her back, but reckoned she was particularly suited to her role in that by the time the customers got past her, any girl they were presented with would look like Venus by comparison.
‘I wish to see a woman by the name of Mairi,’ he stated. ‘I am informed she works here.’
Miss Nadia gave him a cold smile. ‘She does indeed. I can enquire if she is available, but I’ll be wanting to see the colour of your money first.’
If Raven’s finances had a colour, it would be deathly pale. His mother had sent the regular allowance permitted by his miserable uncle, but that had been almost three weeks ago. How he envied the likes of Beattie, typical of those he had studied with whose family riches comfortably financed their living while they learned their profession. His uncle had plenty more to give, and his mother would go to any lengths to secure it if he asked, but Raven would not have her further humbled before him. Once he began to make money in earnest, he would free her from ever having to ask Malcolm for another penny. For now, however, he had to find another currency.
‘I am a doctor at Milton House. I recently treated a girl named Kitty, late of this establishment.’
‘Didn’t treat her very well, did you? She never came back from Milton House. Are you after payment in kind for services rendered? Because it doesn’t work like that.’
Raven fixed her with the same look he had given Mr Gallagher. His dealings with Effi
e Peake had let him know it was best not to show any weakness. Such women dealt in counterfeit emotions, and in this place there was no reward for honesty.
‘There is growing police interest in what might have brought on Kitty’s condition. So unless you would prefer James McLevy and his men knocking on your door instead of me, I would suggest you do me a courtesy.’
Miss Nadia considered this for a moment, then bid him follow, leading him to a room on the second floor. Mairi was tall, appearing all the more so for being undernourished. Her olive skin suggested a more exotic provenance than was usual in these parts, though sadly it most likely derived from a father who briefly put to shore some twenty years previous on a ship from Spain or Italy.
‘Give him what he wants,’ Nadia instructed her. ‘And by that I mean answer his questions. Anything else comes at the usual rates.’
Raven closed the door. Mairi was sitting on the bed with an anxious look, detecting that the circumstances were out of the ordinary.
‘I treated Kitty at Milton House,’ he explained. ‘Your client brought her to us. There was nothing we could do to save her, so I sat by her until the end.’
Mairi bit her lip, sadness immediate upon her face. ‘Thank you for that,’ she said.
‘I would know what caused her agonies. She was with child, wasn’t she?’
Her expression betrayed that Mairi knew this and more.
‘I believe she took measures to get rid of it, and I believe you know that too.’
‘I know nothing about that,’ she answered, a little too fast.
‘Then let’s talk about what I think you do know. If you were to find yourself with child, you would have a notion who to speak to about dealing with it, would you not? Who did Kitty speak to?’
Mairi said nothing, but from the widening of her eyes, it was clear that there was a specific something she was not saying.
‘Have no fear. I am not looking to get anyone into trouble. But I am a man of medicine and I need to know how this happened. Kitty was not the first to die in this manner and I would ensure a similar fate does not befall any other women.’
The Way of All Flesh Page 27
