The Doctor Digs a Grave
Page 18
An Herbaria
By
Dioscorides
The Properties Of Six Hundred Medicinal Plants
The words wandered down the page in the fashion of medieval manuscripts.
“Dioscorides was a Greek who traveled with the Roman army in the first century A.D.,” Mr. Nicholson explained, “and the first person to establish botany as an applied science.”
“Dad, maybe Andrew just wants to relax tonight,” Jennifer said. She had noticed that he had looked tired when he came in.
“No, that’s quite all right.” In spite of himself, Fenimore was becoming interested. Cautiously, he turned the page. The paper was so old and brittle that one false move would crumble it. He thought of Polly Hardwick’s Roman garden. Here were enough specimens to furnish her entire exhibit. He paused to admire an intricate drawing of a familiar plant. Each bell-like blossom, down to the individual grains of pollen on every stamen, had been carefully rendered by hand. The only thing missing was the color, that delicate purple shade from which it drew its botanical name—Digitalis purpurea. And on the facing page was an illustration of another variety—Digitalis lanata, a shorter plant with a smaller, white blossom. It was rarely found in America. Below this drawing was an equally delicate rendering of belladonna, more commonly known as deadly nightshade.
Mr. Nicholson, curious to see what was absorbing his guest’s attention, came to look over his shoulder. “‘Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, / Emblems of punishment and pride,’” the bookseller quoted.
Fenimore looked up.
“Scott. ‘Lady of the Lake.’”
Fenimore was reminded of the poisonous potential of foxglove. Like most things in this world, it could be used for good or evil. “A two-edged sword,” the Textbook of Cardiology had described it. Dioscorides must have known this. Otherwise he wouldn’t have grouped it in his text with other poisonous plants.
“You look awfully serious,” Jennifer said. “There’s only one cure for that. Let’s eat. Dinner’s ready.” She drained her Chablis and led them into the dining room.
During dinner, Mr. Nicholson entertained them with poisonous plant lore.
“Hellebore was a good one to have on hand. The Greeks used it to pollute their enemies’ water supply. Their foes grew so weak from purging, it was a cinch to conquer them. Can’t you see all those Trojans rushing for the men’s room.”
“Nice dinner table talk, Dad.”
He laughed. “And think of all those kings who were done in by one herb or another.”
“And philosophers,” put in Fenimore.
“‘Roote of Hemlocke, digg’d i’ th’ darke,’” recited Jennifer.
“Of course, there was a positive side to that,” the bookseller said.
Fenimore and Jennifer looked puzzled.
“It decreased unemployment. Enter the poison taster! No king or queen dared be without one. The medieval classifieds must have been bursting with ads placed by them. Of course, the positions were usually temporary, and their resumes weren’t expected to be very long. Good taste buds and a suicidal tendency were the only requirements.” He paused to cautiously chew a bit of corn muffin, as if testing for deadly ingredients.
“I read somewhere that Richelieu was too cheap to hire a taster,” Jennifer said, “but he kept lots of cats around and never ate anything without trying it out on one of them first.”
Fenimore wondered what Sal would have to say about that.
“Arsenic was the favorite poison in those days,” Mr. Nicholson said. “It was easy to get hold of in the form of rat poison, and every pantry had a good supply. Sometimes the lady of the house put it to other uses. The infamous Madame LaFarge bumped off several husbands that way. And one grande dame, the marquise de Brinvilliers, did away with her father and two brothers because they stood in the way of the family fortune.”
“Not all poisoners were women, Dad,” Jennifer admonished him. “Maybe Andrew should have brought Sal along to sample his dinner,” she added.
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t have worked out.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t care for corn muffins.”
Jennifer plucked one from the basket and threw it at him, knocking over his wineglass in the process. Fortunately it was empty.
Mr. Nicholson righted the glass, filled it, and continued. “Did you know that the symptoms of arsenic poisoning are almost the same as the symptoms of cholera, Doctor?”
Fenimore shook his head. He was comparing this dinner to the dinner he had recently had with the Hardwicks. Did those people ever have any fun?
“Cholera was very prevalent in those days, and deaths by poison often went undetected because the cause was attributed to that disease. Frequently the poisoner got off scot-free.”
“The heyday for poisoners.” Fenimore laughed.
“What fascinates me,” said Jennifer, “are the ingenious ways poisons were administered. Have you ever heard of ‘poison rings’?”
They looked dumb.
“These rings looked ordinary enough, but they had a cavity behind the stone with a barb attached. You filled the cavity with arsenic, or some other deadly poison, and the next time you ran into your enemy, you gave him or her a friendly handshake, and—presto—you administered the fatal scratch.”
“Never heard of that one,” Mr. Nicholson said, “but I’ve heard of kings who poisoned the points of their scepters. If the king took a sudden dislike to a servant or subject, he just gave him or her a little tap on the head.”
“I prefer more straightforward methods,” Fenimore said. “The poisoned cup or sword, like in Hamlet.”
“There was nothing straightforward about the way Hamlet’s father died,” Jennifer said, and recited,
“With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,
And in the porches of my ears did pour
the leperous distilment …”
Fenimore clapped, suitably impressed.
She flushed.
“How about the Lenapes.” Fenimore had just finished the book Jennifer had brought him. “They used to crush the green balls of walnut trees and throw them into the river to make the fish sleepy and easier to catch.”
“That doesn’t sound quite cricket,” Jennifer said.
“No worse than our custom of tranquilizing cattle before corralling them and slaughtering them,” Fenimore said.
“They also poisoned the tips of their spears and arrows, didn’t they?” said Mr. Nicholson.
“Actually, that’s a misconception,” Fenimore said. “Many Indians who we thought died of poisoned arrows died of tetanus. That green, gummy substance on the arrows that we thought was poison was nothing more than an animal glue made from hide or hooves to hold the arrowhead in place.”
Mr. Nicholson looked dismayed. “If they keep revising history at this rate, my books will soon be worthless.”
“Don’t worry, there will always be readers who’ll want to laugh at the quaint beliefs of their predecessors. Your books will become priceless collectors’ items,” Fenimore assured him.
Jennifer appeared, bearing the apple cobbler and whipped cream. For the first time that evening, silence fell on the table.
It was their custom, after dinner, to go back to the library for coffee and watch an old movie on the VCR.
“What’ll it be tonight?” Fenimore asked, reclaiming his favorite chair. “Arsenic and Old Lace?”
Jennifer showed him the cassette she had in mind, Notorious.
“Good choice,” he said.
Before she put the cassette in the machine, Jennifer placed two books in his lap. The Big Sleep and The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler. “You can’t read them now,” she said as he opened the first volume. “Take them home. They’re yours.”
“To keep?”
She nodded. “Although I can’t imagine why you’d want to read such violent books after your recent experience. I’d think a nice cozy mystery would be more relaxing.”
On the way home, Fenimore’s step was light. All traces of his former exhaustion had vanished. After recovering from Jennifer’s good-night kiss, he reviewed their dinner table conversation. Something Jennifer had said stuck in his mind. “What fascinates me are the ingenious ways poisons were administered.” It was no mystery now that Sweet Grass had died of digitalis toxicity. But how had it been administered? He had discarded his original idea, that someone had dumped ground-up digoxin tablets in her food or drink, because everyone at the picnic had eaten and drunk from the same source. He stopped for the light. Maybe he was under some misconception, like those historians who had jumped to the wrong conclusion about the Indians and their poisoned arrows. He crossed the street. But how was it done? There were no swords or scepters at the Hardwicks’ picnic … .
He paused in midstride.
CHAPTER 33
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 8
It was 4:00 P.M. The last patient had left the office. Mrs. Doyle had also vanished, a new paperback romance tucked under her arm. She was looking forward to an enjoyable evening in the company of Amanda Grey, the beautiful young heiress, and Henry Davenport, the penniless lord who was ruthlessly pursuing Amanda for her money while feigning undying love. Fenimore was surprised at Mrs. Doyle’s apparent lack of interest in the Sweet Grass case. It was very unusual. By now, she should have come forward with at least half a dozen useful suggestions. He hoped she wasn’t still miffed over his having increased his office staff.
Horatio was still there, affixing stamps to the weekly bills. He had just received his first paycheck from Mrs. Doyle, but he seemed in no hurry to spend it.
Fenimore said, “When you’re done, Rat, come with me. I want to show you something.”
He looked up warily, remembering the last time he had accompanied his employer. Unpleasant visions of mice, monkeys, and security guards flashed through his head. But he finished the bills quickly and followed Fenimore to the door.
“Where are we going?” he asked after they had gone several blocks.
“You’ll see.”
Fenimore turned left at Eighteenth Street. Midblock he passed through a pair of wrought-iron gates and led Horatio up the marble steps of an imposing brick building.
The boy halted on the threshold. “This some kind of palace?”
Fenimore saw the scene through his eyes—the acre of parquet floor, the towering classic columns, and the row of “distinguished” personages in gold frames staring down at them. A hush prevailed.
Fenimore shook his head. “But I see what you mean. These fellas,” he waved at the portraits, “take themselves pretty seriously.”
“Who are they?”
“Doctors. But their accomplishments lay more in the realm of politics than science, I’m afraid. Come on.” He hurried him along. “They aren’t the reason I brought you here.”
The boy followed him, past the vacant front desk (the receptionist must have left for the day) and over the polished floor.
Click, click, click.
“What’s that?” Fenimore turned.
“My cleats.”
He groaned. “They’ll throw us out.”
“How come? It’s not a gym, is it?”
“Try to keep them quiet.”
They passed between two pillars the size of redwood trees (Horatio on tiptoe), ducked around a majestic staircase, and paused before an ordinary wooden door bearing a small sign: THE WINTERBERRY MUSEUM. HOURS: 9:00 TO 5:00, TUES.–SAT. “This is it.” Fenimore opened the door, and Horatio wrinkled his nose.
“Formaldehyde,” Fenimore explained the unpleasant odor. “Preserves the specimens. You’ll get used to it.”
The room they entered was the opposite of the one they had just left. It was cramped and cluttered. Three walls were lined with glass-fronted wooden cabinets stuffed with medical curiosities—from a fingernail a foot long to a two-headed fetus. More display cases of a similar character occupied the center of the room. At the back, separated from the rest of the room by a frayed rope, was the replica of a doctor’s office, vintage 1890.
“Hey, that looks like your office, Doc.”
Fenimore had to acknowledge that there was a resemblance. He too had a microscope with brass attachments that was covered by a bell jar in need of dusting. It had belonged to his grandfather, who had also been a doctor. Occasionally Fenimore used it to examine simple slides. He was rather proud of it. He also had a centrifuge, like the one on the table, which had belonged to his father. He used it now and then to spin down blood and urine samples. Why not, if it still worked? And those antique bottles lining the shelf over the sink did look like some that he had in his own medicine cabinet. He never used them, but he liked to look at them and couldn’t bear to throw them away.
“Cool, man.” Horatio had turned from the doctor’s office to a tall glass case that contained two human skeletons, one about eight feet tall, the other less than four feet. The placard read, “Giant and Dwarf.”
Then something else drew his attention. “Look here, Doc.” He was peering at the two-headed fetus in ajar. “This is better than that stuff at the circus.”
The comparison drew Fenimore up short. He had never connected the esteemed Winterberry Museum with the circus. “There is a difference, Horatio. The audience here comes to study and learn, not to laugh and gawk.”
A laugh came from across the room where a group of first-year medical students were gawking at a display of a megacolon. The giant colon (a papier-mâché copy of the original) was six inches in diameter. Its former owner had been a victim of Hirschsprung’s disease and, according to the placard, the poor man had been able to defecate only every forty-two days.
“The purpose of this museum,” Fenimore continued huffily, “is to acquaint interns and medical students with unnatural physical phenomena, in order to cure them.” He paused, suddenly aware of his pompous tone. This place did have a way of getting to you.
“Why would that big guy want to be cured?” Horatio nodded at the skeleton of the giant. “The Sixers would’ve loved to get their hands on him. He’d be rich and famous. And that little dude next to him, he’d make a terrific second-story man. He could rip off any jewelry store in town.” He turned his dark eyes on Fenimore. “Why do we all hafta be alike?”
Fenimore hesitated. “I guess it makes us feel more comfortable.”
“Comfortable, shit! I’d rather be in the Hall of Fame.” He turned back to admire the eight-foot skeleton. “I’ll bet that guy could have made Best Basketball Player of All Time.”
Horatio passed quickly by the heart-lung machine invented by a prominent Philadelphian but lingered over the bronchoscope exhibit. He was fascinated by the drawers full of small objects that had been extricated from people’s windpipes and lungs. He pulled out drawer after drawer of buttons, fish bones, needles, and pins. There was even a Sunday school pin inscribed, “For Perfect Attendance.” But the most common objects inhaled were jacks, those six-pointed metal toys every girl played with, bouncing a rubber ball on the front steps. Fenimore explained that it was the practice to hold the jacks in your mouth while playing. And in the heat of the game, sometimes one would slip down the windpipe.
Horatio shook his head, like a disapproving parent.
They had reached a glass case that stretched the full length of one wall. It housed three rows of human skulls. According to the fly-specked card, the collection had been purchased from a European doctor who had obtained them from the graveyards of convicts and paupers in the eighteen hundreds.
“In those days it was hard to get hold of skulls legally,” Fenimore said. “You had to smuggle them out, sometimes in the middle of the night.”
“You mean dig ’em up?”
He nodded. “But it was for a good ca
use. You could learn a lot from them. Look at that fella.” He pointed to a skull with indentations on the surface of its crown. “Those dents were caused by TB. And that one there belonged to someone who had the sailor’s malady, scurvy.”
“How can you tell?”
“See the erosion around the teeth. It develops due to lack of vitamin C. They didn’t get enough fruit and vegetables on board ship.”
Sure enough, the placard below read, “Sailor. Died at sea, 1894.”
“No problem telling what finished him off.” Fenimore indicated a skull with a hole in it the size of a Ping-Pong ball. The card beneath read, “Robber. Shot while trying to escape prison. Madrid, 1879.”
Horatio’s eyes were wide.
“Shall we go?” asked Fenimore.
The boy, mesmerized by a series of photographs of Siamese twins, didn’t answer.
Fenimore looked at his watch. “Tell you what, I have some work to do upstairs in the library. You stay here and have a look around, and I’ll come back for you when I’m done.”
The library was the most attractive part of the building. Tall arched windows lined one wall, admitting luminous shafts of light. The other walls were lined with bookshelves and wooden filing cabinets. The rest of the room was occupied by freestanding shelves interspersed with long, polished oak tables. The tables were equipped with freshly sharpened pencils and pads, paper cups, and thermoslike pitchers containing water that was always chilled. And the chairs, unlike those in most libraries, were comfortable. They had rounded backs with arms, and each was supplied with a back pad and seat cushion, proving that the pursuit of scholarship need not be synonymous with a sore bottom.
Fenimore went over to the filing cabinets, pulled out the drawer marked P-O, and fingered through the cards until he came to the category “Poisonous Plants.” A further search produced three titles: Deadly Plants, Weeds, and Flowers; Herbs That Kill and Cure; and Poisonous Plants of the United States and Canada. He filled out the call slips and presented them to the librarian. He had barely sat down to wait when the three volumes appeared on the counter. This was the main reason Fenimore retained his membership in the society. After the librarian had verified his membership card, he tucked the books under his arm and went to collect Horatio.