Surgeons’ Hall

by E. S. Thomson

  Skinner seemed less voluble than he had been the day before. He looked at me warily. I tried to draw the fellow into conversation, but he would not answer, apart from the ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir,’ that courtesy required.

  I heard the sound of laughter and the warm buzz of conversation as we approached the little parlour. There was something familiar about the voice that I could hear interleaved with hers, and I felt something dark uncoil inside my breast. Was it disappointment? Melancholy? Jealousy? I could not be sure, but it moved like a serpent sliding out from beneath a rock.

  Will and Miss Crowe were sitting adjacent to one another. Miss Crowe was smiling, her hair glinting dark and glossy in the autumn sunshine, the few threads of grey that ran though it shining like strands of silver wire. When she smiled the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes were evident, though her cheeks glowed with pleasure as she talked, her scarlet lips parted over neat white teeth. When the door opened they fell silent, their conversation hanging on the air like an echo.

  ‘Mr Flockhart,’ she said. She rose from her chair and stepped forward to greet me, slender hand outstretched.

  ‘Jem!’ cried Will, springing to his feet. ‘I said you would be along at some point, though I didn’t expect you so soon. I was just showing Miss Crowe my drawings. I have another here in addition to the hand. A length of vertebrae. She thinks they will do admirably.’

  His tone was cordial enough, but somehow I sensed he was put out. I was discomfited too. What had he said that had made her smile like that? His cheeks were rosy, his eyes shining. He looked happy, I realised suddenly. He never looked like that when he was with me. All at once the box of knives I was carrying seemed cold and cruel as the blades inside it, a mundane object with which I was about to interrupt their tête-à-tête. Neither of them looked annoyed to see me, and yet I detected a change in the atmosphere. The greeting that had sat so easily on my tongue as I entered the room died on my lips, and instead I simply stood there looking foolish. Will deserved his place here. He was commissioned to work on Dr Crowe’s anatomy book. But I? I was superfluous.

  ‘Tea, Mr Flockhart?’ She smiled.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ I sat down, my satchel clutched on my lap. I saw her look at it from beneath her lashes, but she said nothing. As she moved, I caught her scent on the air. Rose and sandalwood.

  ‘Miss Crowe,’ I said. ‘I fear one of your students – Wilson – has been murdered. His body, mutilated, has been left in the dead house—’

  ‘Jem—’ said Will.

  ‘His identity was removed, though it is unclear who did so, or why.’

  ‘Jem—’

  ‘There can be no doubt on the matter. It is Wilson. I have evidence of—’

  ‘Jem, the lad Wilson has gone to Edinburgh,’ said Will. ‘His friends Tanhauser and Squires confirmed it this morning. It cannot be his body in the dead house. You must be mistaken.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I am grateful for your efforts, Mr Flockhart,’ said Miss Crowe. ‘For your desire to uncover the truth, for your . . . your concern for Mr Wilson—’

  ‘And the flayed head?’ I looked from one to the other of them. I could hear my voice getting louder, but I could not stop. ‘The anonymous corpse whose hand was severed? Who is he if he is not Wilson?’

  ‘Mr Flockhart,’ she said gently, ‘You know as well as I do that bodies that come to us through . . . less orthodox means are often rendered unrecognisable as soon as they arrive, if not before. It is an uncomfortable truth, but there it is.’

  ‘And has Wilson actually been seen?’ I said. ‘When? By whom?’

  ‘Jem,’ said Will. ‘Stop this.’

  ‘But by whom?’ I repeated. ‘It is a simple enough question. Where is the proof that Wilson is alive?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Jem. You’ll be telling us next it might be Halliday. He’s not been seen either.’

  ‘It is not Mr Halliday, it is Mr Wilson.’

  They sat together in silence, looking at me with concern. I felt my cheeks blaze as a hot flush of embarrassment crept up my face. And yet the fragments of whitewash that I had drawn from beneath the fingernails of the severed hand left me in no doubt. And there was worse news too, for in the dead room I had examined the skinned face and neck of the corpse. I had found the windpipe to be crushed and bruised, clear evidence of strangulation. From the crimson flesh that circled the throat I had abstracted three cobalt-blue fibres. Silk – no doubt from the ligature that had been pulled tight until he was dead. I glanced at Will, at Miss Crowe, and I knew I could tell them none of this. It made me feel worse than ever to see them both in accord, united in pity for what they clearly saw as my misplaced persistence. Tears stung my eyes.

  ‘Well then,’ I said, more sharply than I intended. ‘If Wilson is found, then that is that.’

  Miss Crowe stirred her tea. Her face, downcast, was unreadable. On the table beside the tea tray was Will’s drawing of the skeleton hand. I found myself wondering once again what they had been laughing at. What they had been talking about that had made their eyes sparkle so? She said nothing about Will and me being inside the mortuary the previous night, though she must have known. And so I said nothing too. I would find Silas Strangeway on my own, I decided. I would ask him myself what he had been doing in the mortuary. And I would discover what had really happened to Wilson.

  After that there seemed little more to say. Never any good at trivial conversation – bland statements about the condition of the roads (universally terrible), or the weather (mostly abominable) – I fell into an uncomfortable silence. After a minute or two I stood up to take my leave. I thought Will would do the same, but he did not. As if by magic, for I had not seen her ring a bell, Skinner appeared. He led me back to the hall with a stony face.

  There were students everywhere, standing talking, lounging against the walls, passing up and down the stairs. I recognised two of them from the dissecting room, along with two of the other students we had seen at the Exhibition. Dr Allardyce was talking to a pair of young men in their shirtsleeves, their fingers still bloody from the dissecting room, their brown aprons thick with gore. Flies droned through the air above their heads. Dr Allardyce looked nervous, as if he did not enjoy speaking to anyone and would much prefer the silent company of a corpse. The two students from the Exhibition vanished into the common room. Should I follow them? I felt I had little choice if I was to make any progress with my inquiries.

  I dislike having to insinuate myself into the company of strangers, and meeting young medical men always worried me. Now, I was faced with the dilemma of how to present myself. If I pretended that I was one of them, then they might expect me to share robust anecdotes about drunkenness or debauchery, and anything that caused them to dwell on my masculinity, or lack thereof, was to be avoided. Of course, people saw what they expected to see, and the port-wine birthmark across my eyes and nose distracted people from looking deeper. On the other hand, if I spoke to them as a superior, as a man more qualified and experienced than any of them, what camaraderie might I be able to foster? Probably none at all, and they would say nothing to me of any significance. Might I manage to strike a balance between the two? I pushed open the door and went inside.

  The room had once been the front parlour, a place where ladies might sit to take tea in the afternoon. Its horse shoe-shaped fireplace was still grand, but was now scuffed and dirty, and dotted with calcified circles of dried phlegm, like patches of lichen. A set of tongs, a coal shovel, a brush and poker, had been flung harum-scarum on the hearth, the patterned tiles of which were now black with ashes and dirt, and cracked from the careless thumping down of the coal scuttle. Against the walls were shelves of medical books, jars containing morbid specimens, resin casts of veins and arteries and bones of all kinds. On the mantel a clock ticked, beside it a human skull and a half dozen vertebrae of different sizes. In front of the large bay window a table stood. It was littered with ink stands
, pens, books and paper crawling with line after line of scribbled words. Tanhauser was hunched over an atlas of anatomy, his lips moving, his finger marking a place on the page as his eyes closed. I watched as he opened his eyes, ran his gaze down the list of names he hoped to remember, and groaned. ‘I will never get this into my head.’

  ‘What is it?’ Squires was sitting on a low chair toasting a piece of bread in front of the fire, his free hand absently turning the pages of a book that rested on his knees.

  ‘Facial nerves.’

  Squires grinned. ‘Even old Wilson managed those!’

  Beside him, another man was lounging in an easy chair, his legs akimbo on the singed hearthrug. ‘Take a break, old fellow. Fancy a bottle?’ And he reached over and produced two beer bottles from a crate that was balanced on a stack of The Medico-Chirurgical Review beside the fireplace.

  ‘Too early for me, Renshaw.’ Tanhauser rubbed his arms. ‘It’s rather chilly in here. Why don’t you get back from the fire, Squires, then perhaps we can all share the heat.’

  ‘Put your coat on,’ replied Squires without looking round.

  ‘But it’s you, Squires.’ Renshaw shoved him with his toe. ‘You and your slice of toast. It’s not fair on old Tanhauser over there – unless the toast is for him, of course. He takes it with cheese, don’t you, Tanhauser? Fancy one?’ He held up a bottle. He must have felt the draught from the open door on his neck at that point, for he looked round at me. ‘Shut the door, can’t you?’ he drawled. ‘Can’t you see we’re trying to keep warm and feed ourselves?’

  ‘Ten Zulus Buggered My Cat,’ I said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He stared at me for a moment as if I were completely mad.

  ‘Facial nerves,’ I said. ‘Ten Zulus.’

  A smile twitched at the corners of Renshaw’s mouth.

  ‘Oh, now, that is good!’

  ‘What is?’ said Tanhauser and Squires together.

  ‘You have a test coming up?’ I said.

  ‘Dr Crowe’s demonstrating tomorrow,’ replied Tanhauser. ‘With Wilson gone he’s bound to ask me. He always does. “Tanhauser! List the facial nerve branches! Or – God help me – Tanhauser! List the cranial nerves! Tanhauser! Blah, blah, blah.” He thinks I’m an idiot.’

  ‘You are an idiot,’ said Renshaw. ‘Almost as much of an idiot as Squires here.’

  ‘Good God, Renshaw, he’s nowhere near as stupid as I am!’

  ‘Well, you could both do worse than to listen to this chap,’ Renshaw grinned at me. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Flockhart,’ I replied. ‘Ten Zulus Buggered My Cat, Mr Tanhauser – it’s a mnemonic for remembering the branches of the facial nerves. Temporal, zygomatic, buccal, et cetera et cetera. Want the cranial nerves?’

  ‘Oh, I do, even if Tanhauser doesn’t,’ said Renshaw.

  ‘Oh, Oh, Oh, To Touch And Feel Virgin Girls’ Vaginas, Ah, Heaven!’ I said. ‘Olfactory, optic, oculomotor, trochlear, trigeminal – need I go on?’

  Tanhauser guffawed and clapped his hands. ‘Virgin Girls’ Vaginas, Ah, Heaven!’ he said. ‘Yes!’

  The others grinned and sniggered. ‘Wilson’ll like that one,’ said Renshaw, taking a swig of his beer. ‘Though any virgin girl would be advised to run at the very sight of him.’ He raised his bottle in a salute. ‘Thanks, Flockhart. I’ll remember that – though quite frankly it’s unlikely Tanhauser will. Or at least, he’ll probably spout the mnemonic itself and Dr Crowe will have a fit.’

  ‘I have more if you need them.’

  ‘Want a bottle?’

  ‘So where’s this chap Wilson got to?’ I said, taking the bottle of ale he held out to me and dropping into a vacant chair.

  ‘God knows,’ said Tanhauser. ‘Said he was going back to Edinburgh so I assume that’s what he did. It’s what I told Cruikshank, at any rate.’

  ‘The weird sisters made this place a bit too hot for him,’ said Squires.

  ‘Oh?’ I said. ‘How so?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Tanhauser. He frowned at Squires. ‘The less said about that the better. I just need to pass my exams and get out before it’s me they come for.’

  ‘You?’ Renshaw laughed. ‘Why would the weird sisters want you?’

  ‘It’s Halliday who should watch out,’ Squires shook his head. ‘It’s a grave mistake he’s making there. Mind you, I’ve not seen him for a few days either. Perhaps he’s gone to ground with Wilson.’

  ‘What’s this chap Halliday like?’ I said. ‘I keep hearing his name.’

  Squires nodded. ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘You only think that because he forged your attendance ticket for you when you were lying abed with that whore on Craven Lane,’ said Tanhauser.

  ‘It was he who introduced me to “that whore on Craven Lane”. Her name is Susie, if you must know. Dear sweet Susie.’

  ‘A pox by any other name would smell as sweet.’

  ‘She doesn’t have the pox,’ said Squires.

  ‘I’m afraid you find us a lewd bunch, Mr Flockhart,’ said Renshaw. ‘Though judging by your contribution to the conversation so far you’re no better.’

  At that moment the door was kicked open and a man lurched in. He was in his early twenties, not much older than the rest of them, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. He looked pale, and was unsteady on his feet. His skin had an unwholesome look to it, the flesh beneath his eyes clinging to the bone in a bluish circle. He dropped into a chair and closed his eyes. Tanhauser, Squires and Renshaw stared at him in surprise. ‘Dear God, Halliday,’ said Renshaw at last. ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘Mild dose of the cholera,’ Halliday whispered. His voice was hoarse. ‘Went out drinking with Dr Allardyce. Said he wanted to talk about my prize essay. Said he wanted to congratulate me on making the connections before he did.’

  ‘Dr Allardyce?’ said Tanhauser. ‘He bought a drink?’

  ‘Wait, though,’ Squires held up his hand. ‘You’re not just telling us that Dr Allardyce bought a drink, but that he bought you a drink?’

  ‘Bought me lots of drinks,’ said Halliday. ‘And food. Beer, oysters, beer, oysters – I was feeling a bit ill even before I got home, truth be told. But by midnight!’ He shuddered. ‘I couldn’t get to the privy, or onto the chamber pot fast enough! And I was so cold. Still am, as a matter of fact. Get away from the fire, Squires, you great lump.’ He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. ‘I got one of the landlady’s boys to fetch me some sugar and salt, and I mixed it with water.’ He closed his eyes and swallowed painfully. ‘It’s the only thing that’s kept me alive, I’m sure of it. God,’ he said. His bowels gurgled noisily. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ He lurched to his feet and bounded back out into the hall.

  ‘Cholera?’ said Tanhauser. He looked alarmed. ‘How come he’s not dead?’

  ‘One can recover,’ I said. ‘Evidently. Unless his diagnosis is incorrect, and I see no reason why it should be. His face has all the hallmarks of it.’

  ‘But the miasma—’

  I shrugged. ‘The miasmic theory of contagion? It’s hardly convincing. If cholera was the result of foul vapours, why is the whole of the city not perpetually afflicted by it? It stinks like a sewer everywhere. And yet, when the cholera comes it is a localised occurrence, with some streets affected badly and others not at all.’

  Halliday reappeared. He took a bottle from his satchel and drank from it deeply. He wiped his lips and grimaced. ‘God, it’s a vile mixture.’

  ‘Dr Crowe will be glad to see you,’ I said.

  ‘Pity he didn’t send a runner,’ said Halliday. ‘I could have done with some help. I could hardly move a muscle this morning. I’ve been shitting all night.’

  ‘There’s a cure for cholera?’ asked Renshaw. ‘I had no idea!’

  ‘Generally speaking, I think it unlikely,’ replied Halliday, sinking back into the armchair. ‘I had a light dose, though if I’d not drunk my mixture I might not be here now.’

 
At that moment the door flew open and Dr Allardyce himself burst in. ‘Halliday!’ he cried. ‘I heard—’

  ‘What?’ drawled Halliday. ‘You heard I’m not dead? Very disappointing for you, sir.’

  Dr Allardyce blushed. ‘Come now, H-Halliday—’

  ‘Perhaps it was that place we went to,’ said Halliday. ‘All those oysters! You’re not affected?’

  Dr Allardyce shook his head. ‘Not a bit. How did you . . . how did you recover?’

  ‘It occurred to me that if I could put back in the top all that fluid that was pouring out of the bottom I might just manage to survive. And you know how Dr Cruikshank’s always on at us about “using all the senses” – the number of corpses I’ve sniffed and licked!’ He grinned. His eyes were as blue as indigo, bright against his skin’s pallor. ‘The moist surfaces seem to me to be mostly saline – a bit sweetish here and there, but mostly salt. Assuming it might be more than just water that was pouring out of my arse, I thought I might try to put the sweet and the saline back in. So I drank a solution of salt and sugar – every time I had to visit the privy I sank a few pints of the stuff. Seems to have done the trick. Mind you, I’ve got the thirst of the Devil and my head’s pounding.’

  ‘Want a beer?’ drawled Tanhauser.

  Halliday glugged the ale thirstily. ‘Pints and pints of that nasty salty water went down my throat, pints and pints of something very similar poured out of my back end. I could hardly keep up.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go home,’ I said.

  ‘God, no!’ he replied. ‘The place stinks – especially after the night I’ve had. I’ll stay right here, thanks. Besides, lots of work to do upstairs.’ He grinned at me and held out his hand. ‘John Halliday,’ he said. ‘Anatomy student and former missing person.’

  Coming out of the common room, I ran into Will. ‘Jem,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am still here. I have Dr Strangeway’s knives.’ I pulled the box from my satchel. ‘I’d like to return them – with our apologies, of course.’

  ‘You should have given them to Miss Crowe.’