‘I don’t know.’
‘And yet you say you did know him?’ said Will.
‘Of course! But opium eating is not a habit one always admits to one’s friends.’
I nodded. It was true. The opium fiend was a notoriously devious and shame-filled individual. Many of them conducted their lives perfectly normally, and yet the truth was that they could not remain themselves without daily recourse to the black drop.
‘Then how did Dr Cole and Dr Antrobus know of it?’ said Will. ‘Were they his friends?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Did Aberlady have a tattoo on his arm?’ I said.
‘A tattoo?’ Dr Proudlove looked taken aback. And then, to my surprise, his face seemed to close. It was as though he had stepped back within himself, withdrawing from us, and from the scene before him.
‘You think such things are the preserve of those on the edges of society?’ said Will.
‘Of convicts, sailors and soldiers, yes,’ he said. ‘And we see plenty of them here, I can assure you. But not on us, Mr Quartermain.’
‘Us?’
‘I meant not on medical men.’
‘A moment ago you implied that you were a man disdained by the doctors on board the Blood,’ said Will. ‘And yet now you are happy to claim their brotherhood? I can’t help but wonder what lengths a man might go to in order to feel truly a part of this ship.’
‘He would not poison his friend, sir, that I can tell you,’ replied Dr Proudlove. ‘Your Mr Quartermain here has a most suspicious mind, Mr Flockhart. One might think that his acquaintance with you would have taught him not to judge a man by the colour of his skin.’
‘A man is dead, Dr Proudlove,’ I said softly. ‘I’m afraid all of those on board are to be regarded with suspicion.’ I leaned towards him. ‘Something is going on here,’ I whispered. ‘And we will find out what it is, whether you help us or not.’
We looked at one another, he staring at my red face, and me staring at his dark one, both of us wondering what truths might lie beneath. He licked his lips. ‘I cannot help you,’ he said. ‘Aberlady was my friend, though I can’t say what misguided ways he had strayed into recently.’
‘Misguided ways?’ I said.
Dr Proudlove picked up his travelling bag. ‘I can say no more. Not here. Not now.’
‘Then when?’ I said.
‘Tomorrow. You will undertake Aberlady’s post-mortem?’
‘I will. First thing in the morning.’
‘Then I shall see you in the mortuary at six bells.’
‘What time is that?’ said Will.
‘Seven o’clock,’ said Dr Proudlove.
‘Very well,’ I said, though it was earlier than I had intended and I feared a long day was in store for us. ‘Six bells it is.’
‘You think you can trust him?’ said Will, as Dr Proudlove vanished from the apothecary. ‘A man shows you a bottle of flies, admires your choice of microscope, and you’re ready to believe what he tells you?’
‘He’s an outsider, Will. On this ship, that makes him our ally.’
‘Does it? I’m not so sure. We must be vigilant, Jem. This place isn’t like St Saviour’s – or even Angel Meadow, where we could at least be certain who our friends were, even if we were not sure of our enemy. On the Blood we are amongst strangers. And one of them, at least, is a murderer.’
He was right, I knew, and yet there was something about Dr Proudlove that I liked, something that made me warm to the man, and I was not ready to lump him with the others just yet.
The ship was much quieter now, the laudanum that I suspected was doled out to subdue the patients every night as a matter of course had taken its effect. That was one thing I would change as soon as I could, for it would render all of them costive and irritable the next day, and there were better remedies for insomnia or nervousness – tinctures of vervain and valerian, camomile and St John’s Wort – that might be used without chance of addiction. But we had work yet to do, and I led Will out of the apothecary and downstairs to Aberlady’s room.
The door was open, as if Aberlady himself had just burst out. I held up my lantern as we went inside. The place was a similar size to the apothecary – spacious enough, but rendered oppressive by the low ceiling, which was little higher than our heads. There was a desk, more books, and in the corner an iron bedstead. Those were the only unremarkable things in a bedroom that was quite unlike any I had ever seen, for John Aberlady slept in what might only be described as an anatomy museum. Every available surface was covered with jars and bottles, their glass faces glittering in the lantern light, the pale remains within floating white and soft-looking, as if fashioned from bits of uncooked dough. I was used to anatomy museums; any medical man of any calibre would have a collection of his own – tumours he had excised, or grotesquely diseased organs, curiosities he had found, such as a mouse with no eyes, or a lizard with two tails. What was distinctive about John Aberlady’s collection was the number of creatures he had collected that lived in or on the human body. Lice, worms, leeches, ticks – all of them pickled and bottled and labelled. Alongside were jars containing those parts of the body that might be affected: a liver blighted by flukes, a section of intestine containing a tangle of tapeworm, a head whose grey water-logged skin bore the moist sores of the yaws sufferer.
Beside them stood a row of glass tanks: one whirred and chafed with locusts, another contained a plant with large rubbery leaves dotted with tiny jewel-like frogs, a third contained Aberlady’s red, black and yellow striped snake. It was a poisonous snake, a viper of some kind, though smaller than one with similar markings that I had seen in Aberlady’s possession some years earlier. Perhaps that first one had died and he had obtained another. I heard Will groan.
‘Oh God,’ he said, looking at the anatomy collection. ‘Not more of these bottled things. And what’s that?’
He pointed to the corner of the room, where another glass tank, some four feet high and five feet long, stood on a low table against the wall. Inside it was the branch of a tree, and looped around that the smooth muscular coils of a gigantic snake. It was a python, the one Dr Sackville had mentioned as being Aberlady’s favourite, the one whose coils he had oiled lovingly, on deck beneath the rare London sun. Maximus, Aberlady had named it, and the smaller one was Minimus. I wondered whether it was dead. After all, Aberlady had been missing for over a week and there was every chance the thing had not been fed. Perhaps pythons were used to fasting. I had no idea. Perhaps the first thing Aberlady had done on his return was come to see his beloved snake. I saw a slight movement as the light from my lantern disturbed the creature – the gleam and flutter of a reptilian eye, and the shining flick of a black tongue.
Beside the snake’s home was another tank, inside which was a mass of fur. Rats. Dead by the looks of things, though I could see one or two of them moving sluggishly. Breakfast, lunch and dinner for the snake, no doubt. I raised my lantern. The place looked ordered, rational, the way I might expect from a man of science like John Aberlady. But something was wrong.
‘Why are the rats dead?’ I said.
‘Have they starved, without Aberlady here to look after them?’
‘They would have turned on each other long before they starved to death,’ I said.
‘So?’
The room was warm – the stove lit and belching out a deal of heat, though most of it had escaped into the night air through the open door. ‘And who lit the stove?’
Will shrugged. ‘Aberlady? Pestle Jenny?’
I went over to the stove. It was rounded, with a flat top upon which Aberlady was in the habit of standing a kettle so that he might have water for tea at all times. His teapot stood on a trivet in the hearth. I bent to touch it, to see whether it was warm, but like the one in the apothecary it was stone cold. As I crouched down, my face drew near to the stove top, and I caught a whiff of something. It was a familiar smell, acrid and astringent, but not unpleasant. I felt my head grow light, my
lips start to tingle. I cried out and lurched away, my hand over my mouth. ‘Cover your mouth and nose,’ I snapped. ‘Quickly.’
‘What is it?’
I held my breath as I snatched up the hearth brush and shovel, and swept up the scattering of crushed seeds that were smouldering on the stove. ‘Henbane,’ I said from behind my handkerchief. ‘Most of it has gone, drifting out of the open door, but not before it killed the rats and turned Aberlady’s wits—’
‘But if he breathed the poison in, taking an emetic would be useless,’ said Will.
‘Perhaps he didn’t realise how he’d been poisoned, but was only aware that he had been. If we’d been much later all the evidence would have burned away and these seeds would look like nothing more than coal dust. Had the poison been administered via the teapot – which was my first assumption, then even the stupidest of policemen would surely have worked it out before long.’
I tipped the cooled seeds onto a sheet of paper torn from my notebook, folded them up, and slipped them into my satchel. The discovery had shocked me. Not only was there no doubt at all that Aberlady had been murdered, but it was clear that his murderer was a singular opponent.
Chapter Seven
When I came downstairs in the morning Gabriel was already up. Pestle Jenny was still asleep, curled in a nest of blankets in front of the hearth. I told Gabriel to look after the girl – give her work and food – the two of them would run the place alone that day, and perhaps for the next week, though what I would do with her in the long term I had no idea.
Gabriel looked pleased. ‘Shall I get her to talk?’
‘If she wants to talk she will,’ I said. ‘Just be kind. Give her tasks to distract her. Make her feel welcome – and let her grind.’
Will and I ate a hasty breakfast – bread and butter with some cured ham I had bought back from Sorley’s the night before, washed down with a cup of coffee. I didn’t want to linger about the apothecary – Mrs Speedicut had already gone, and I was sure that news of last night’s tragedy would already have reached the ears of Dr Graves. Dr Proudlove had promised to meet me at the mortuary at seven, and I wanted to be sure that he and I were not troubled by anyone else from the Blood.
‘Did you sleep?’ said Will, as we walked towards the river. The sun was not yet up, though the sky to the east bore a savage gash of scarlet. Last night’s fog had vanished, and the dilapidated thoroughfare was lit by a bloody first light. Already there were people everywhere.
‘Yes,’ I lied. He knew better than to ask me more, and so we walked together in silence, neither of us looking forward to what awaited us that morning. ‘You don’t have to come,’ I said after a while. ‘If you wished to go up to Tulip’s Basin—’
‘I’ll go there later,’ he replied. He put his arm through mine.
The mortuary was illuminated by a panel of windows set high in the wall. The place was in a damp and chilly basement and the window looked out at ground level onto the yard at the back of the building. It was too early for good light – not that anyone could rely on such a thing in London, for even at midday the city might be as dark as evening – and against the walls lamps burned. The wicks of two of them needed trimming, and sooty wraiths of smouldering whale oil trailed from them like narrow strips of black crêpe. The place stank of the sewers, of stale water and putrefaction. I would stink of it too before the morning was done. I had spent enough time at St Saviour’s dissecting rooms to know.
The mortuary attendant, Toad, greeted us at the door. The body of the girl had been taken away. Her organs had been carried off by the students to be preserved in spirits and added to their collections; what remained had been loaded onto Dr Graves’s corpse wagon and trundled off to St Saviour’s across the river. Now, there was only Aberlady down there, alone upon the slab.
‘Thank gawd you’ve arrived, sir,’ said Toad. ‘The other doctor’s already here—’
‘Dr Proudlove?’ I said, peeling off my top coat. ‘Good—’
‘Oh no, sir,’ said Toad. ‘Not ’im.’
I suppose I had half-expected it. After all, the man was as omnipresent as a blowfly when it came to a dead body, and I had a feeling he had an arrangement with Toad to make sure he was informed before anyone else when a body found its way onto the slab. Dr Graves grinned at me as I entered, and lifted his boning knife by way of a greeting.
‘I didn’t see your corpse wagon, sir,’ I said.
‘I came straight from home,’ he replied. ‘But I have sent for the wagon, you may be sure of that.’ He had evidently just breakfasted, as the smell of fried whitebait hung on the air. ‘Well, Flockhart,’ he said, wiping his salty lips and fingers on Aberlady’s winding sheet. ‘Here we are again, eh? And Mr Quartermain too. Well, well. Let us hope we’re not disturbed by that rabble from the Blood this morning.’ He flourished his knife as if he were about to carve the Sunday roast. ‘Shall we?’
‘I was expecting Dr Proudlove,’ I said. It was already seven o’clock – ‘six bells’, in the nautical parlance used on board the Blood – he should have been there. ‘Perhaps we might wait a moment?’
‘Proudlove?’ Dr Graves frowned, and lowered his knife. ‘I’ll not work with him.’
‘Why ever not, sir?’ I said.
‘He has no place in this profession,’ said Dr Graves. ‘A negro? Good God, sir! We will be training up women next. I can’t imagine what university allowed him in.’
‘I believe it was Glasgow University, sir,’ said Will. ‘I saw his medical certificate upon the apothecary wall at the Blood—’
‘Oh, well, there you are then,’ scoffed Dr Graves. ‘That’s the Scots for you! They’ll take anyone!’
‘And yet I believe they offer the best medical training in the world,’ said Will. ‘And I understand Dr Proudlove received the class medal. So, he will surely be more than adequately equipped to anatomise the corpse of his friend, whether you like the colour of his skin or not.’
‘I can hardly believe he was granted a place,’ muttered Dr Graves. He was speaking to me, not to Will, as if by addressing a fellow medical man he was addressing a sympathiser. ‘And then they give him a position on board the Blood! Mind you, the place is not what it was, anyone can see that. No doubt they were sore pressed to find a man willing to work there for nothing. It is an honorarium, of course. And yet the city is full of medical men. Any one of them would give his right hand for a hospital position—’
‘Has the place changed that much, sir?’ I said. ‘I remember it when I was a child. Its reputation was no worse than ours at St Saviour’s, and it is admirably placed for those who arrive in the city afflicted with the diseases of the tropics. Dr Sackville and Dr Rennie must surely have a great deal of expertise between them—’
‘Oh, those two, certainly,’ said Dr Graves. ‘Though no one quite understands why they are still there. Rennie is too old to be of use to anyone, and Sackville, well, surely he hardly needs the place. His private practice is very lucrative indeed. But they were instrumental in setting up the Blood in the first place, and are perhaps loyal to it for sentimental reasons. It has trained a good many men in its time. Those who plan to work in the colonies often walk the wards there. But it is not what it was. And taking on a black man – I can only say how glad I am that such experiments have not found their way up to St Saviour’s.’
‘You think it an experiment, sir?’ said Will.
‘What else can it be?’
‘Perhaps it is an example of the best man for the job actually getting the job.’
I felt my irritation rising. ‘Perhaps one day it will be the best woman who gets the job,’ I said.
‘A woman?’ Dr Graves laughed. ‘Ha ha! Ah, Flockhart, you are funny. And yet, might I remind you that we are a serious profession, sir! Nine times out of ten who “gets the job” is the person who knows the surgeon, or who has married his daughter, or who has enough money to pay for the acquaintanceship.’ He shook his head. ‘It is the same everywhere. Mostly it
is a perfectly sound arrangement, though occasionally, I admit, there are mishaps. Look at that idiot Monro they appointed to teach anatomy at Edinburgh!’ He shook his head. ‘His father and grandfather were geniuses. But he was a buffoon.’
‘And those without money or connections?’ said Will. ‘What do they do?’
‘They must go abroad. Otherwise there’s only the special hospitals – eyes, ears, diseases of women or children – and none of those allow a man to make a name for himself. If a man has no money, it is only patronage that will get him on. Or an exceptional discovery and I’m afraid that since Harvey published his work on the circulation of the blood there’s not much left of great significance to be found.’
‘Surely not, sir,’ I said. ‘There is everything left to discover. The workings of the body are still shrouded in mystery.’
‘And yet its general mechanics are not—’
Will pulled out his watch. ‘I wonder where he is?’
‘You see?’ said Dr Graves. ‘The fellow cannot even observe the necessary punctuality. They are a notoriously lazy and indolent race.’
I pulled on an old overcoat. It was common for anatomists to cover their clothes when in the mortuary, though Dr Graves never bothered with such niceties, and the mortuary’s reek of death and drains followed him everywhere. I had nothing for Will to wear, though I knew he would spend most of his time standing in the door like a wraith, unsure whether to faint, or to lurch up the steps onto the riverside.
‘I suppose he can join us when he comes,’ I said. I saw Will staring at Aberlady’s corpse; his face was as white as wax and we had not even made the first incision. ‘Perhaps you might step outside, Will. To see whether Dr Proudlove is coming,’ I said.
‘Before we start, Flockhart,’ said Dr Graves as Will vanished up the steps to the dockside. ‘The mortuary attendant has brought something to my attention. Swears he knows nothing about it, of course, and I must say I see no reason to doubt the fellow. Says he was in here all night – he and his son—’
The Blood: What secrets lie aboard? (Jem Flockhart Book 3) Page 8