It was clear even then that he was not addressing the man on the ground. At the time, Raven had no notion who Gideon really wanted to hurt.
But he did now.
THIRTY-ONE
fter the unseasonal chill of the past few days, sunshine had returned to remind Raven that it was indeed summer, even in Edinburgh. He spotted Dr Simpson marching along Castle Street towards the Caledonian Hotel and sprinted to catch up. Lady Furness was awaiting her consultation with the professor and Raven was pleased to have finished his morning duties in time to accompany him.
‘Ah, there you are, Will. Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘A walk in the sun in Princes Street Gardens. That is my standard prescription for those prone to hypochondriasis,’ Simpson declared, then added as a whispered aside, ‘The place will be awash with valetudinarians today.’
He laughed as he said this, though Raven suspected there was likely to be some truth in it.
Simpson seemed to be in a jovial mood and Raven had no wish to spoil it, but he did have some questions he wished to ask. The professor always seemed to know a great deal about what was going on in Edinburgh at any moment – though given the amount of gossip Raven was sifting through, Mina might have been a better bet.
‘I heard Teddy Hamilton speak at a meeting last night,’ Raven said. ‘It got me thinking about unmarried mothers and the fostering of their children.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I know that is something you and Mrs Simpson have been involved in.’
‘We try to find good homes for children whose mothers are not in a position to take care of them. Unfortunately, it is not an unusual situation, and often a complicated one. The consequence of seduction, adultery: there are many reasons but always the same outcome. Shame and dishonour if it should become common knowledge. And frequently the mother bears this alone.’
‘So, if the child can be secretly spirited away the mother retains her good name?’
‘That is the idea. Otherwise she is seen as tainted and her prospects limited.’
‘That seems unfair. The father is never held accountable.’
‘Some assist financially if they are in a position to do so.’
‘But the child is never acknowledged.’
‘Not in my experience. Reputation and good standing are of paramount importance in this world.’
Raven paused before proceeding, wondering if it was wise to share what he had learned from Mrs Crowe. There was no delicate way of putting it.
‘I recently heard talk of an affair between the provost and the wife of the Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. Have you heard anything about this?’
Dr Simpson gave him a quizzical look. ‘I did not think you one for such idle chatter, Will.’
Raven was about to protest but Dr Simpson continued, ‘I have not heard anything of it, but it must be acknowledged that the fishwives of Newhaven trade less gossip than the great and the good of this city. That said, rumour and gossip emanating from such circles, in my experience, tend to have at least a whiff of truth about them. The remarkable thing is that more scandal does not seep out.’
‘I just wondered whether perhaps it was this that Sir Ainsley Douglas held over Mansfield to force him to fall into line.’
‘Quite possibly. As I said, this is a city where reputation is everything. They are all obsessed with status and posterity. How they will be remembered. It is as though they are in a hurry to lie beneath the turf, so long as there is a headstone grandly inscribed with glowing achievements.’
Dr Simpson, who was now getting up quite a head of steam, began gesticulating as he spoke, and Raven noted that his right hand was sporting a neat bandage. Sarah’s work, presumably.
‘They ought to be wary,’ Simpson continued, ‘for posterity is a capricious mistress. You might accumulate a lifetime of good deeds and noble achievements, but then be remembered for one weakness or failure, as long as it proves sufficiently conspicuous.’
He continued to wave his bandaged hand around.
‘Beware any man who wishes to seize upon another fellow’s weakness or failure as though it were his prize. It is often a sign of his own wretchedness: that secretly he knows he is worthless.’
‘That cannot be said of Sir Ainsley Douglas, though, can it?’ Raven said. ‘He was a proud man of wealth and standing, his reputation untarnished by scandal.’
They were approaching the hotel entrance. Raven opened the door and stood aside to let Simpson go through. The professor stopped and looked at him before proceeding.
‘A man can be all these things,’ he said, ‘and yet know deep inside that he is rotten.’
They crossed the hotel foyer, all chintz and ferns, and were on their way to the stairs when Dr Simpson was waylaid by a woman in black. So many people seemed to know him, and he always made himself available to them, despite time seldom being in abundance. From the grave look on this lady’s face Raven could tell that this was not going to be a happy encounter. He resisted the temptation to check his watch. If Simpson dallied with this woman, they would be late for their appointment with the titled lady on the second floor.
‘Oh, Dr Simpson,’ the woman said, ‘I have been in anguish since you saw my son. You must tell me: is he going to die?’
Raven knew nothing about the case, but could tell she was not some bored attention-seeker like Lady Mackenzie, and her son troubled by something far graver than ‘queer sensations’.
Simpson looked her in the eye, his expression sincere, lacking all trace of its usual playfulness. He took her hand. ‘Your boy knows,’ he said. ‘Nature told him as she has told you. And we doctors should leave such things for nature to tell. Her message comes softly to patient and friends when there is no more hope of life here.’
The woman nodded. She looked sad, but not surprised.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She gave him a sad smile, withdrew her hand and turned away.
They arrived at Lady Furness’s room only a few minutes late, Dr Simpson rendered a little more sombre as a result of his encounter with the dying boy’s mother. As they approached the door, a short, grey, dour-looking man, well known to them both, was taking his leave.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ Professor Syme demanded, his words exploding from his mouth in a mist of ungentlemanly spittle.
‘I could ask you the same,’ Simpson replied.
‘I have been providing a surgical consultation and can assure you, quite categorically, that the lady within does not require the services of a man-midwife.’
This last was said with an ill-concealed contempt.
‘Need I remind you, sir, that I am a physician. As such, I deal with so much more than delivering babies.’
‘Need I remind you, sir, that none of us should trespass into areas that are beyond our competence. Surgery should be left to surgeons, don’t you think?’
Dear God, thought Raven. Here we go again. He wondered if Syme was alluding to a recent case where a patient had died after Simpson performed a minor surgical procedure. Rumours had spread that she died of haemorrhage as a result of Simpson’s incompetence, rumours that were subsequently proven – largely thanks to Sarah’s efforts – to be egregious and without substance. Had Syme also been involved in maligning Dr Simpson’s good name? Raven had not suspected so at the time. All of the culprits had been identified. Or so he thought.
‘Are you questioning my competence?’ Simpson asked, a steely note in his tone now. ‘I will not tolerate being slandered.’
‘And I do not bear false witness,’ Syme replied, unapologetically. ‘I speak as I find.’
‘How dare you address me in such a fashion. I have done nothing to merit such vilification.’
‘That is a matter of opinion.’
Both men now looked to be on the point of detonation, thrumming with barely suppressed rage. Raven was beginning to think he would have to step between the two professors to prevent any furth
er escalation.
Their raised voices had drawn the attention of whoever was behind the door. A young woman, the lady’s maid presumably, peered out at them, unsure how to proceed given that two eminent medical gentlemen appeared about to come to blows in the hallway.
The two men continued to stare at each other. Raven held his breath.
A voice was heard from within: a lady’s register, high and flighty.
‘Is that Dr Simpson?’ she trilled. ‘The great Simpson of Edinburgh?’
The professor smiled. Wide. Broad. Unrestrained. This was perhaps even more provocative than his snarling retort only moments before.
Syme stood his ground for a moment, then rolled his eyes, turned and marched off down the stairs.
THIRTY-TWO
everal hours later, Raven had traded the lobby of the Caledonian Hotel for the lobby of the Courant, where a pimply youth manned the desk, if manned was the appropriate word for such a stripling.
‘I’m here to see Mr Sanderson,’ Raven told him.
The newspaper’s premises were situated on the High Street, squeezed between the police office and the Temperance Hotel, and across the street from its competitors, the Scotsman and the Caledonian Mercury. A triumvirate of newspapers, keeping the citizens of Edinburgh appraised of world events. Raven resented having to be in such close proximity to McLevy’s lair again. He was trying to steer clear of the detective since invoking his name during his tense interview with Dymock, the perspiring lawyer.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘I do not, but my business is urgent.’
‘Mr Sanderson is too busy to see just anyone who walks in off the street,’ the young man said. His tone was rather disparaging, and Raven did not care for it, particularly coming from someone several years his junior. He realised that he was unused to being addressed in such a disrespectful way, having become accustomed to the deference of the patients at Queen Street.
Resigned to the evident reality that someone so junior was not about to disturb the editor on behalf of some random stranger, Raven returned outside to ponder his next move. He looked to his right at the Temperance Hotel and thought it unlikely to be the preferred haunt of journalists and reporters. Sobriety was not an attribute for which they were generally known. He thought about where they were more likely to congregate, a plan forming in his head. His association with Dr Simpson might open Sanderson’s door yet, just not in the usual way.
He was about to enter the Black Ram, a public house a few doors down, when he remembered a snatch of conversation from a dinner party some time ago, about Edinburgh newspapermen convening in a tiny howf in Fleshmarket Close. It was a place away from the prying eyes of ordinary passing trade, allowing them to conduct clandestine meetings or perhaps just to enjoy a drink in relative peace.
Raven found the place halfway along the close, a nondescript establishment unlikely to prove inviting to strangers. It was smoky inside, an old man on a stool near the door puffing away energetically on a pipe. Only a couple of the tables were occupied. Raven approached a man sitting on his own, nursing a glass of ale.
‘Do you work for the Courant, by any chance?’
The man jerked a thumb at another table in the corner, where two men were deep in conversation. Raven wandered over.
‘Gentlemen, I have some information that might be of interest,’ he said.
‘Oh, aye,’ said one, barely looking up.
‘Regarding Professor Simpson.’
‘The chloroform man? Discovered something else, has he?’
‘It’s more of a personal matter.’
The man sat up a bit, his companion turning round. This was obviously of more interest than another scientific breakthrough.
‘Take a seat,’ the first man said.
Raven remained standing.
‘The information I possess is of a sensitive nature. I will only disclose it to Mr Sanderson himself.’
‘I can’t go bothering the gaffer with any old rubbish. Who are you anyway?’
‘My name is Dr Will Raven. I work with the professor.’
‘A doctor, eh? Work at the Infirmary, do you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘That’s a pity. A source of information there would be of use to me. People want all the details, you see. Unusual cases, the outcome of a brawl. That kind of thing.’
‘Well, I can’t help you with that.’
Raven had no interest in supplying medical gossip to reporters – or anyone else for that matter – whether they attracted emoluments or not. He agreed wholeheartedly with Dr Simpson that trust and confidentiality were sacrosanct.
He handed the man a slip of paper.
‘If he’s interested, tell Sanderson to meet me there. At the time specified.’
He tipped his hat then made his exit before the man had time to read the details.
There were streaks of red in the evening sky as Raven made his way to the rendezvous. He had little doubt that Sanderson would respond to his message. Given Sir Ainsley’s interest in the professor, Raven knew that his bait was too tasty to pass up. His only concern was that, with Sir Ainsley gone, Sanderson might have lost interest, but it seemed unlikely. Information was power to whoever held it.
Crossing the High Street, Raven was unsettled to observe McLevy striding towards him. The detective raised his hand, whether in greeting or to halt his progress Raven was not sure. There was no way of avoiding the man, however much he would have liked to. Thoughts of his deceit towards Dymock loomed prominently in his mind.
‘Dr Raven. I have some news that may be of interest.’
‘Mr McLevy,’ Raven greeted him in turn, touching the brim of his hat.
‘That address you discovered on the parcel paper, in Candlemaker Row. Turned out to be that of an elderly bookseller who has his shop there. Says that he throws away such parcel wrappings every day. There was nothing to link him with the death of the child. Reckon the perpetrator lifted the paper from a common midden. So, what seemed to be a promising lead has proved to be worthless.’
‘Worth something to Mary Olsen, I would wager,’ Raven suggested.
McLevy frowned. He did not relish being reminded of his earlier certainty that he had found the woman responsible.
‘What now?’ Raven asked.
‘There is little more to go on and I have no shortage of other duties to keep me occupied.’
He began to walk away as he said this, presumably to emphasise how busy he was.
Raven proceeded in the opposite direction, towards the Infirmary, hastening his steps to put distance between himself and the detective. He felt relieved there had been no repercussions regarding his interview with Dymock, but as he walked on, relief turned to disappointment. He would have preferred that the address had yielded something. A haberdasher, perhaps. Or a woman in a blue shawl.
Sanderson entered the mortuary at the Infirmary on tentative feet, as though trespassing. Which of course he was. They both were, in fact: Raven should not have been there either.
Raven had thought about offering to meet in a tavern but realised that such an environment would be precisely where Sanderson was most comfortable. It was the kind of place a newspaperman did much of his business, and where he would probably have friends and colleagues nearby: possibly even unseen, just in case. Instead Raven had decided to host him in an environment where he could put Sanderson on the back foot.
He had arrived early and arranged a variety of surgical implements on the table in the middle of the room: trephine, bistoury, amputation saw. There was also a fresh corpse under a sheet, though Raven had not arranged that. It was merely a happy coincidence. The place had its usual smell about it – nothing too terrible, but unnerving for those unused to it.
He offered his guest a seat, which was initially refused. Then Sanderson felt the full impact of his surroundings and thought better of it, settling himself down on a stool. Raven had forgotten how small the man was: a squirrelly little charac
ter, fastidiously neat in his appearance, wearing an exquisitely tailored suit and carrying a gold-topped cane. Very much the Edinburgh paradox: neat and clean on the surface but making his living rummaging in the dirt.
Raven wondered absently why everyone seemed to be so much better dressed than himself.
‘Why did you bring me here?’ Sanderson asked as he looked around, distaste writ large on his face. ‘This of all places, like a dungeon at the heart of a bloody labyrinth. I am a busy man. I don’t have time to waste.’
You came running quickly enough at the prospect of something on Dr Simpson, Raven thought.
‘You may remember that we were introduced at Sir Ainsley Douglas’s soirée,’ Raven began. ‘I am Professor Simpson’s assistant.’
There was no hint of recognition from Sanderson.
‘The professor told me that your employer had been trying to wheedle information out of him regarding his discreet role in fostering children. The inconvenient issue of the well-to-do. I know that Ainsley Douglas deployed compromising information as a means of exerting influence on people. I also know that you provided him with much of that information. I imagine that even with Ainsley gone, you would be interested in something that might force Dr Simpson to be less—’ He paused as though searching for the most appropriate word ‘—circumspect.’
‘“Sir Ainsley” to you, young man. No one called him just “Ainsley”.’
‘Not to his face, anyway,’ Raven suggested.
Sanderson looked round the room again, obviously uncomfortable.
‘Well, what have you got for me?’ he asked, impatient now.
Raven picked up the amputation saw and examined the blade.
‘Nothing,’ he answered. ‘I have no information to give you regarding Dr Simpson and nor would I divulge it if I had.’
Sanderson’s eyes bulged. ‘Then what in God’s name did you bring me here for?’
‘I wanted your admission that it was you who supplied Sir Ainsley with this kind of information.’
‘You knew that before I set foot in this ghastly place. Said so yourself. Is that all? Are we done here?’
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