by Howard Engel
As the morning advanced, I ushered in the rest of the patients, one after another, until the waiting-room was quite empty. In almost every case, Bell’s eyes had seen what ours had missed. The rounded soles of boots, the stick-pins in neckties, the stains on fingernails, the shine of wear on a pair of trousers, all told tales for those of us who could read them, he taught us. And most of us remembered these demonstrations of the amazing Dr Bell at least until we took our degrees in medicine. Some of us will never forget.
When the waiting-room had been emptied and the surgery put back in order, Dr Bell poured an ounce of a pale amber distillate from a Florence flask into test-tubes and handed one of them to me. “Have a wee dram before you go, Doyle.”
“Thank you, sir.” I sniffed at the test-tube and noted alcohol and peat.
“Your health, laddie,” he said, sipping at his drink. “A cousin makes this on the slopes in the shade of the Sow of Athole. Smell the heather in it.” I hadn’t expected to be treated to a drink of spirits by my professor and I was flattered by his attention. He looked at me over the top of his drink and began dissecting me, or so I thought.
“You’re a stuffy, unbending sort for an Irishman, Doyle.”
“I’m an Edinburgh native,” I reminded him.
“Oh, I know that,” he said, waving his hands as though to muddle what was already clear. “I know that. But Scotland has left very little of the Irish of your ancestors about your bones. You’ve got oatmeal in your blood like the rest of us. Where are your dark Celtic longings, your impossible quests for Cúchulainn and Queen Medb?”
“Sir, I—”
“Ach, call me Joe, laddie. That’s my name when I’m not on a platform. I suspect you do already behind my back. I detect in you fine makings, Doyle. But I’m not certain that these are the makings of a country doctor. Or even a fashionable city physician. You’ve a curious mind. Not the most curious I’ve encountered, but you’re wide awake and bright. You know that the heart is a muscle, but you’ve heard enough philosophy to wonder what else it is. You know that the sacrum is a composite of ankylosed vertebrae forming the back of the pelvis, but you know that it is so called because it is thought to be the repository of the soul. Have you encountered the soul in your anatomy classes, laddie?”
“No, sir.”
“Ha! Nor will you. Will a brass plate outside your door under a red lamp satisfy what you want out of this life, Mr Doyle?”
“I—”
“I say ‘this life’ out of habit. We look at the world through conventional lenses, laddie. I canna, myself, see you as a general practitioner of medicine. Will you be content to sit in your consulting-room, waiting for your patients to arrive? For listen, my friend, a waiting-room in a fine house in a fine London Street, Cavendish Square, I should guess you’re thinking of, is not where patients await the doctor, but where the doctor waits for something to come along. The only thing you can count on is the rent collector, who is never late.
“Perhaps you’re thinking of taking up a speciality: eyes, ears, nose and throat; the chest; the brain. All well and good and room to expand. But what says the little manikin under your ribs? What says the darkness of your room to your ear as it lies on its pillow?”
“I had thought—”
“Yes? Yes?”
“I’ve always wanted to write.”
“To write? About what? Since you claim to enjoy literary interests, you might try reading authors who were physicians: men like Sir Thomas Browne, Montaigne, Locke and Holmes.”
“Holmes? I don’t think I know a Holmes, sir.”
“Holmes, Oliver Wendell, professor of anatomy at Harvard. Excellent stuff. If the sort of writing that interests you has aught to do with medical subjects, I’ll consider your work for the Medical Journal. I can promise you that. But that’s not it, is it? I begin to see the Irish coming out in you. It’s more than the common Celtic strain, of which we both partake; it’s more. Tell me about it. At last I let you open your mouth to speak.”
I explained to Bell, after my fashion, which tends to be rather under the mark, about my ambitions in the direction of literature. I told him of the small items I had penned and the letters about them I had received from editors. All the while, Bell nodded, replenished our test-tubes and began filling his meerschaum pipe with shag.
The story of my life, my hopes and ambitions was droning on, quite to the delight of the speaker and the apparent interest of the sole listener, when a noise was heard in the waiting-room. I had forgotten to fasten the outside door. We both got up and repaired in the direction of the sound. The waiting-room was empty except for the figure upon which both of us clapped our eyes. It was a youth of about my own years. His face was marked by confusion and fear. Blood caked in his hair spoke of some injury, the fact that it still ran down the side of his face suggested that it had happened less than an hour ago. His eyes, which sat deep in their sockets, looked from one of our faces to the other. At last he spoke.
“Dr Bell? Dr Joseph Bell? I am a dead man if you fail to help me.”
THREE
It was with some difficulty that we managed to half-drag, half-carry the young man into the surgery, for almost as he spoke the words which filled me with dread and curiosity, he fell into a faint.
“Put him down on the examining-table,” Bell said firmly, trying to steady his voice. Together we lowered him to the wooden surface I had just re-covered with brown paper. Carefully Dr Bell examined the young man’s head. “Get me something to clean away this blood, and scissors to cut his hair.” I found what was needed and brought them as quickly as I could to the doctor, who, without looking away from his patient, began snipping away at the blood-matted hair.
“Does it appear to be serious?” I asked, holding my breath.
“It doesn’t seem to be. It may be a concussion. We will see. We will see. A length of cotton gauze, Mr Doyle.” I supplied him as before and watched the man’s closed eyes as they began to flicker in an attempt to return to consciousness. As Bell stepped back, I could see that the wound appeared to be superficial enough: such as might have been caused by a blow from a club or missile. After applying some carbolic, Bell bandaged the head using sticking plaster over gauze. As he completed the work, I could see that another pair of eyes were watching his hands. The man groaned several times, rubbed his eyes and looked about him. He caught both of us in an uncomfortable gaze before he spoke.
“Have I the pleasure of addressing the illustrious Dr Joseph Bell?” he asked. Bell smiled at the adjective, but decided to postpone any debate about the degree of his celebrity until we had learned more about our visitor.
“This is my assistant, Dr Arthur Conan Doyle. Perhaps, sir, you would tell us your name and give us some reason for your coming here. It’s a long way from Market Square and there are doctors’ brass plaques outside several of the doors and at least two casualty infirmaries. A man in your condition should have sought the nearest source of care, but you came here, sir.” As he said this, he poured a draught of some solution into a beaker and aided the visitor in holding it to his mouth. The man took a sip or two, then pulled his head back. I was glad to see that Bell had not poured from the same source that we had been tapping earlier.
“Dr Bell, I am not a medical man—”
“Of course you’re not. You are a painter. Your shoes tell me that much. But you haven’t been painting today. You’ve been making a visit, something official, people you are frightened of, or at least want to make an impression upon. Now, please go on.”
“I know enough to be sure that my condition is not serious. Nor is it the chief reason why I sought you out.”
“Indeed! Perhaps you had better explain yourself, young man. But first, let me help you to sit up. It is a nasty bump you’ve had, but, as you say, it is superficial. It will heal and be itself.” Together we helped the man off the table and to the only comfortable chair in the surgery. He settled in, looked at our faces again in turn, and then began to speak.
>
“My name is Graeme Lambert. My grandfather was John Angus Lambert, DD, Principal of the Royal High School until his death three years ago. My father, a broker on the exchange, rejoices in his father’s name and blameless character. I have always been one of the two black sheep of the family. Of my brother, I’ll speak in a moment. My family has found it has no capacity to deal with artists or with wastrels. It doesn’t know where to put us. Things have been somewhat easier since the death of my grandfather, but I have been a son to my parents at arm’s length. Only my sister, Louise, has reserved her judgment and has remained in touch with me. I’m sure she disapproves, but her character is such that she overcomes her misgivings. What I mean to say is that I am an ordinary sort of chap, but quite beyond the pale of society. Apart from my brother and me, we are a conventional family in this chillingly conventional city.
“I have been working with an engraver, who has helped to keep me alive, and one of the papers makes use of my political sketches and caricatures. I am, thus, neither wealthy nor starving. I exist, or rather I used to exist, for my work: portraits, which come few and far between, and frescos, an art I alone still practise in this city.
“The change to my present, somewhat less than successful, existence began when Alan, my younger brother, was arrested for the cruel murder of Mlle Hermione Clery, the celebrated soprano of the Royal Opera.” Here Dr Bell and I exchanged glances. For there were few in this city—nay, in this country—who hadn’t read or heard something of the affair. Newspaper headlines had proclaimed it THE EDINBURGH HORROR in large bold type. Hermione Clery and her paramour were found with their throats cut in an upper room of the soprano’s lodgings in Coates Crescent. The presses, wherever they turned, both here and in the south, carried the news. It was a sensational case to be sure, and one which I understood was about to be tried in the assizes.
“I have just come from seeing my brother in the cells. His solicitor has instructed me to keep clear of the trial. It is his belief that my way of life, the irregularity of my household, my very presence, will redound to the disadvantage of my poor brother. There was a small crowd outside the gaol, and when I came out a cry went up and all sorts of brickbats were thrown in my direction. The impact of one of them you have just treated, Doctor. It was a lucky missile; the malice it represents was truly aimed at Alan rather than me. The case has excited the people of this town and it will not abate until after the trial is concluded.”
“Why have you come to see me?” Dr Bell asked quietly, fixing our visitor with a steady look.
“But, there is no one else!” he said. “The police will not listen to me. I’ve written to Sir George Currie, the Lord Advocate, and to the Home Office. I’ve appealed to the editor of the newspaper I work for; he rewarded me by removing me from the list of his political cartoonists.”
“What about your father? What steps has he taken?”
“My sister tells me that he has done everything I have and more. He moves in influential circles. He knows the lawyers and judges. He speaks their language. But, they have done nothing for him. Nothing. That is why—”
“Mr Lambert, I am a doctor. I am something of an authority in the realm of medicine. I have written several monographs which have appeared in The Lancet and my work in the operating theatre has been commented upon in that journal, but, my dear sir, you are asking me to step away from what I know into a world I can hardly surmise.”
“You are too modest, sir. I have heard how you assisted a nephew of William Temple last year. In a very delicate matter.”
“Ah, you know about that? It was a case of mistaken identity. A slight service for an old friend.”
“And there was the case of a trained cormorant and a lighthouse.”
“Hardly a case, young man. A little political intrigue, perhaps. Again, my assistance to a friend has been exaggerated. I can do nothing for you.”
“They will hang my brother, sir. He is innocent.”
“So he very well may be, Mr Lambert. What on earth can I do about it? Suppose you came to me and asked me to build you a cottage, or go upon the links with you for a round of golf. My answer would have been, ‘You’ve come to the wrong man.’ I have no skill in these matters, sir.”
“What about the business of the green lampshade? The matter was talked of in my club—when I was respectable enough to belong to a club—for several weeks.” Here Bell took a deep breath and walked slowly to the window. For a time he played with the bauble dangling at the end of the window cord. Our visitor watched him for some moments before he returned to his pursuit.
“Have you ever watched a hanging, Doctor? I tell you it is not a pretty sight.”
“Indeed it is not. Nor has it been for many centuries. I take it that your outrage against the institution of capital punishment is of recent vintage. To be frank, sir, I am unable to help you. How can I help a man I cannot altogether trust?”
“Are you calling me a liar? Are you mad? Desperate I may be, but my credibility is untarnished.”
“In general, perhaps, but when caught between the moor and the loch you are somewhat dramatic in your approach to the truth.”
“Wherein did I mislead you, Doctor?”
“You said that your life was in danger. Your exact words were, ‘I am a dead man if you fail to help me.’ Highly dramatic, to be sure, but unfactual. It is your brother’s life that is in hazard, not your own. Now, young sir, I heed to your problem, but I can find no firm footing near you. Will you pull at the weft of the truth again when it suits you?” Lambert looked at Bell and then at me. Colour had drained from his features. His mouth opened and closed twice before he began to speak.
“I confess to misleading you. It was unforgivable. It was a cheap theatrical gesture. But consider my cause, my injury, my plight. I promise to speak only the truth, without exaggeration from this time forth.”
“It is of little consequence now. I am sorry for your trouble, but I cannot recommend myself as a means of escaping from it. The cases you mentioned were not the adventures you imagine them. They were simply acts of friendship, which hardly put me in a position to hang out a shingle announcing a change in my profession.”
“You admit that they were acts of friendship?”
“Need I say it again? But you, sir, have no such claim on me.”
I thought I saw the faintest glimmer of a smile on the face of Graeme Lambert. Bell saw it as well. Still he continued to badger the man.
“Why did you come here? What brought you to this door? Don’t tell me it was the red lamp outside, or I will be forced to call you a liar again, sir. Any doctor could have mended your broken head. There is something that you have not said. Out with it.”
“Sir, I hesitate to say, before a third person, what I would otherwise only reluctantly impart to you.”
“Speak, man! Speak your piece! Dr Doyle and I are colleagues. I trust him with my own secrets, why not with yours?” This was the second time Bell had referred to me as “Doctor,” a form of address to which I was in no way entitled: a set of formidable examinations lay between me and that appellation. But, let me impede the story no longer. We both watched the face of our visitor.
“Very well. In the autumn of 1854, Dr Bell, you lay in a crowded ward of the fever hospital, suffering from a malady that had not yet been diagnosed.”
“Quite right. This is becoming more interesting.”
“The doctor assigned to you was my uncle, the late Isa Merriman, MD. During the course of one night, your fever began to rise to a crisis. My uncle, according to his widow, worked over you through the night. In the end, you survived to leave the hospital. Within a fortnight, my uncle was buried in the Greyfriars cemetery.”
“Sir, I am confused: are you telling me that your uncle saved my life and that in so doing he sacrificed his own? I have no independent knowledge of either event. I admit that I was despaired of by my family and sent to the fever hospital as a last resort, but of the great sacrifice you name, I can say no
thing. How can such things be proven?”
“Sir,” I interrupted for the first time, “Dr Bell owes you no favour. What your uncle did, he did with his own free will. No doctor would have done less. You cannot now hold Dr Bell to account, however painful the story be and however needful your present situation. You can demand nothing beyond what we have already done for you. You have our sympathy and good wishes to be sure.”
“Your uncle? He had a port-wine stain on his face? Just here?” Bell indicated the right side of his face with the palm of his hand. The stranger nodded. “Then I do remember something of that confused and painful night. I remember him chilling my body with snow that he had brought in from the street. I remember his voice raised, exhorting me to work with him, to try to hold together the reins of sanity. I remember his strong grip on my hands as he washed me down and wiped the sweat from my face. Yes, I remember the man!” Lambert said nothing for a moment. He got to his feet, holding tightly to the chair as he righted himself.
“I have kept you gentlemen too long,” he said in a low voice. “I regret what I have just said, sir. It was unfair and unmanly of me to have mentioned my uncle. Please remember that it was my brother’s need that prompted such familiarity.” He took two steps towards the door. His face was ghastly white, as he went, holding tightly to the examining-table as he passed it. Imagine the cheek of the man. I tried to mediate my growing anger. How could he use such pressure on Dr Bell? It amounted to nothing less than blackmail. I was still giving inner-voice to these rambling thoughts when Lambert reached the door of the surgery. Bell, too, watched his halting progress. At last, he drew in his breath:
“Mr Lambert,” he said, “this history of your uncle has proved more than interesting. I perceive your purpose, of course. It was I who raised the issue of friendship and you have used friendship and the debts of friendship masterfully. If you were a jot more clever, I would have nothing further to do with you.” Here Bell paused again, rubbing the end of his chin with a knuckle: “Mr Lambert,” he said, “I take it that you are acting as an agent for your brother?” Lambert nodded his head in the affirmative. “You may tell him, young sir, that such service as I can provide is at his disposal.”