The Five Step Plan

by Elizabeth Welsford

  “You there! Stop that at once!”

  Mrs. Pannade spun round at the sound of the distant voice, climbing off of the doctor and jumping to her feet. She squinted at the bobbing lantern approaching from up the alley. At once, she dashed in the opposite direction, amazingly fast for a corseted woman in heeled boots sprinting across the slick and darkened cobblestones.

  “Wait! Wait! Come back here this instant!” Dr. Whitcraft called after her, feeling the panic rising in his chest as he too saw the silhouette of a uniformed man approaching directly. Dread flooded his heart, and his voice cracked as he called, “Uh, good evening to you, sir.”

  “All right, then. On your feet and place your hands where I can see them.” The officer was close enough now for Dr. Whitcraft to see the bemused expression on his face. “Not a very appropriate place for such a passionate romp, is it then?”

  “What? Good Lord it was nothing of the sort. I am a physician and…that was a deeply, deeply troubled patient—a female patient. I was attacked in the darkness.” He knew how shrill his voice must have sounded as he rose to his feet. “The woman in question is known to the police. If you just let me explain, I’m certain your superiors have a record of my complaint.” Now that he was standing, his trousers slipped, and he reached to catch them.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them, there. Now explain what you mean about this patient.”

  At that, his trousers gave way, settling around his ankles in a heap, leaving the doctor’s small clothes exposed and his knees chilled by the night air.

  “Well, well. This attacker of yours…what was she after exactly?”

  ****

  Miss Faffle stood trembling in the doorway, mesmerized by the unexpected presence of the policeman. She pulled her blanket even tighter over her nightclothes and held the lantern to the side so she could unlock the door. Had the rumors about her and Mr. Gamon led the police to her door?

  “Miss, I am sorry to bother you at this hour. Do you know this man? He claims he is a doctor.” The officer grasped the frockcoat of his most agitated captive and pushed him forward for her inspection.

  Miss Faffle exhaled, noticing her boss for the first time. “Yes. He is Dr. William Whitcraft. Oh doctor, your trousers are—”

  “And he lives here?”

  “He owns this building. I work for him.”

  “You see?” Dr. Whitcraft sighed, holding his trousers shut with both hands. “Now that she has identified me, may I please go in to my home and see to the repair of my clothing?”

  “Yes, but you’ll need to answer some questions.”

  “Miss Faffle, would you kindly explain to the officer the nature of our problems with Mrs. Pannade while I change my clothes. She accosted me in the street.” He stepped past her and disappeared into his office.

  She brought her hand to her face at the news. “Oh my. How dreadful.”

  “Miss Faffle is it? I’m Constable Fettle. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Oh no. I wasn’t asleep yet.” She stepped aside, and gestured for him to come in. “I sleep in that room there, and the doctor lives upstairs and that is where he sleeps.” She was desperate not to allow the officer to misconstrue the situation and add to her already scandalous reputation.

  “Now tell me, what did the doctor say? You know about this woman who accosted him on the street?”

  “Oh dear, yes. She’s one of his patients—was a patient, I’m afraid, but yes. She’s gone mad, you see. Follows him everywhere…his fiancée as well. She’s very disturbed.”

  “The fiancée or the patient?”

  “The patient. Yes. Her name is Mrs. Pannade. Would you care for something? Perhaps some tea?”

  “Oh, I would love some tea.” He dropped himself into a chair. “You say his fiancée also follows him everywhere?”

  “What? No, no…just Mrs. Pannade. She’s the ex-patient.”

  “I see.”

  “Would you care for some lemon with your tea?” she asked.

  “No, but I wouldn’t mind a couple lumps of sugar, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all. Will you have some biscuits, as well?” She walked into Dr. Whitcraft’s office and crossed to the bottom of the stairs.

  “I don’t want to put you out, but yes, that would be lovely. I never turn down a biscuit. No, indeed.” He patted his rather rotund belly. “You know it’s getting very cold out there this evening. I wouldn’t dream of strutting around London with shredded trousers, like your boss there.” The officer chuckled and Miss Faffle’s eyes grew large as she laughed, too.

  “He doesn’t usually do that.”

  “Oh who knows with these doctors, reading all that nonsense about suffering and dead people, it’s all so ghastly. It’s a wonder they don’t all go mad.”

  “Oh, I know.” Miss Faffle nodded at him. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called up the stairs, “Dr. Whitcraft? Constable Fettle would like some tea. He’ll take it with two lumps of sugar…” She turned back to the smiling constable. “Is that right? Two lumps?”

  The officer nodded.

  “Yes, he wants two lumps of sugar, and a plate of biscuits.”

  ****

  Dr. Whitcraft could hear Miss Faffle and that police officer chatting even though it had to be in the small hours of the morning. Upon Miss Faffle’s request for tea service, he had gritted his teeth, boiled the water, put together a spread suitable for his majesty himself and then carried the whole lot downstairs on a tray.

  As the officer daintily selected a biscuit while balancing a teacup on his thigh, Dr. Whitcraft answered the man’s questions about Mrs. Pannade. After a suitable cross-examination, the officer was finally satisfied. But rather than leaving, he elected to stay and have another cup of tea. It was not long before he began expounding on a variety of topics, including the merits of exercise, the role of the police in a civilized society, and the probable existence of an afterlife.

  Miss Faffle had been enthralled by the discussion of such radically disparate topics, but the doctor had been ready to tear out his hair. When he couldn’t stand it any more, he got to his feet and announced his retirement for the evening.

  After the day’s traumatic series of events, he wanted nothing more than to be left in peace. But an hour later, it still sounded like they were having a garden party downstairs laughing and chatting amongst the clanking of cups and dishes; it was all rather gauche.

  He sighed as he pulled the blankets under his chin. Mrs. Pannade’s face remained fresh in his mind—her evil suppositions regarding the honor of Miss Reave still lingering. Unquestionably, however, he must dismiss the accusations outright. Logic dictated so, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps she had misinterpreted something she saw, or more likely, she concocted the entire story in a pathetic attempt to get him to abandon the pursuit of Miss Reave altogether. The poor, misguided woman. Perhaps tomorrow he would call on Dr. Vorago and demand he keep a firmer leash on his patient.

  He flipped on his side, bunching the covers underneath his head, as Constable Fettle’s belly-laughs drifted around his bedroom from below. He imagined the exquisite face of Miss Reave, the poor darling. How proud he was to have a woman like that agree to be his wife. He should spoil her, and if he couldn’t take her to Paris, at least he could surprise her with a new house.

  That settled it. He would put the cash down on the house first thing tomorrow, and be done with it. He would move his office upstairs into this room, and make the old office into another examining room, thereby doubling his productivity. It would be exhausting, but he could manage. Then Miss Faffle could stay in the other room upstairs. Yes. That would be a perfect arrangement.

  The excitement of his plans gave way to exhaustion, and as he lost himself amongst his drowsy thoughts, his eyes snapped open at the sound of Constable Fettle—was he singing now?

  Indeed he was, having just begun a highly ornamented rendition of The Last Rose of Summer in a not terribly offensive tenor.
Dr. Whitcraft sighed and shut his eyes again, letting the wavering melody lull him into a deep and much needed sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dr. Whitcraft’s Hansom cab trotted to a halt in front of The Barts. Dr. Marplot dashed up to the door and eagerly helped his colleague onto the street.

  “So glad you’ve come today, doctor, so very glad.” He studied him and offered a sudden embrace. “And you’re right on time, as well.”

  “I appreciate the invitation.” Dr. Whitcraft cleared his throat and threw his shoulders back as they approached the front door.

  When Dr. Marplot had invited him to spend a Saturday morning touring St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, he initially declined. Under most circumstances, he would have jumped at the chance to mingle with other doctors at such a prestigious hospital, one that he rarely had the opportunity to visit. But he suspected that spending any amount of time with that blustering windbag in a professional setting would only prove to be irritating at best.

  That was until Dr. Marplot had alluded to the possibility that the two may be able to assist in a surgery. Dr. Whitcraft had witnessed scores of surgeries over the years, but had never actually had a chance to participate in one because physicians and surgeons held separate licenses, and almost never worked in concert. The chance to get his hands inside a living person, delving into the blood, bones and gore of it all…well, it was too good to pass up. Tolerating Dr. Marplot for a few hours seemed a small price to pay.

  But there was another motive for accepting the man’s invitation. Perhaps a few pointed questions could reveal if there was any substance to Mrs. Pannade’s distasteful accusations about Miss Reave. But as it happened, an interrogation was unnecessary.

  “I had the distinct pleasure of escorting the future Mrs. Whitcraft and her chaperone back to her father’s home a few evenings ago,” Dr. Marplot said as they strolled through the hallways. “What a delightful young lady. I’m sure she told you.”

  “No, actually she didn’t,” Dr. Whitcraft murmured, the muscles in his neck tightening.

  “Oh, well…she must not have wanted you to hear how disappointed I was that you weren’t by her side at last week’s Society of Manners meeting.”

  “What the devil were you doing there?” After he’d said it, Dr. Whitcraft wished that he had blunted his accusatory tone.

  “I’ve heard of their great works for years and decided to attend a meeting myself, and I’m so glad I did! I found the zeal of that assemblage positively invigorating. Those people are really on a mission. I joined immediately and am actually toying with the idea of running for toastmaster. You have to be elected, of course. They drummed the last fellow out, you know, after the exposure of a rather unsavory ruse the man had cooked up, but I’m not privy to the details. Toastmaster! Me? Not that I have the time. Miss Reave thought it an excellent idea. What do you think?”

  Dr. Whitcraft shrugged, noticing how the hospital workers stepped out of their way and whispered deferentially as they passed.

  “Enough of this chit-chat.” Dr. Marplot stopped in front of a surgical theater and flipped open his pocket watch. “We’ve got a leg to sever!”

  He swept past two dressers standing at attention to assist, as well as an older, less interested nurse.

  Dr. Whitcraft followed closely, forgetting all about Miss Reave and the Society of Manners as he glanced around the cavernous sky-lit room, unable to hide his delight. “How wonderful,” he whispered.

  “I know.”

  “Where is the surgeon?”

  “Oh, you mean Mr. Looby? He’s left it up to us, old man.”

  “Left it up to us? What do you mean?”

  “Why just what I said. Amputations are pretty straight forward then, aren’t they?”

  “Shouldn’t the man at least be here? I mean we aren’t licensed for this sort of business.”

  “Oh, who needs a license? We know more than any surgeon any day! We’re the ones who went to school, after all. Why not use it? Anyway, Mr. Looby isn’t even in the building. He’s gone deer stalking in Wiltshire. He begged me to take over. Have you ever met Mr. Looby? Positively a ghoul. We’re better off without the man. Let’s have a look at our fellow, then.”

  The patient in question was Mr. George Twitchel, who lay unconscious and at the ready, tightly strapped to a table and naked under his drapes. The ghastly disease-ridden wound on his right leg was uncovered and exposed to the air, and a tourniquet had been applied just above the area of concern.

  “How much did he consume, Mr. Smittlish?” Dr. Marplot asked the taller of the two assistants.

  “Mr. Twitchel has had a good deal of laudanum and an entire bottle of spirits, sir. Quite an accomplishment given he’s an officer in the temperance society.”

  Everyone gave a reserved laugh as they huddled around the comatose man.

  “Let me tell you about our boy, then Dr. Whitcraft.” Dr. Marplot gestured at the patient. “He came to us several weeks ago, and as you can see our treatments have proven to be most unsuccessful; that ulcer there has run rampant.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s appalling,” Dr. Whitcraft whispered, pulling the drape back further still. “What caused the original injury, do you know?”

  “The old boy has insisted he fell off his horse and impaled his leg on a fence post, but…” He glanced at the assistants, and leaned toward Dr. Whitcraft. “There’s a rumor going around that his mistress gave him a good gouge with his decorative sword.” He straightened and shrugged. “We are all capable of a little misadventure now and again. Regardless, we’ve all settled on it. The leg must go.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Dr. Whitcraft agreed.

  “Aha.” Dr. Marplot selected a large saw from a tray of half-dozen similarly purposed instruments all resting on a wheeled cart adjacent to the table. “I prefer this one.” He waved it over the patient, casting a dancing flash across the room.

  Dr. Whitcraft studied the assortment of tools. “Which knife will you use for the incision, Dr. Marplot?”

  “You mean, which knife will you use?” He nudged him.

  “Are you certain that you want me to do it?”

  “Of course…you came all this way. Have at it, old man.”

  Dr. Whitcraft gave a tug at the tourniquet and then scanned the faces of the dressers as he picked up an astoundingly large knife and held it over the patient. Perceiving no objections, he licked his lips and laid the blade flat against the upper thigh, estimating the best place for the incision. He swallowed hard. “All right, then. Is everyone ready?”

  Dr. Marplot waved his saw. “Ready, doctor!”

  Dr. Whitcraft couldn’t stifle his enthusiasm as he pantomimed a stroke in the air before making a fast, deep slice in the man’s thigh. The skin broke apart easily into a wide gape.

  “Nicely done. Tighten the tourniquet, Mr. Smittlish.” Dr. Marplot hurriedly traded places with Dr. Whitcraft. He put the instrument in place and began sawing at once, but still managed to preserve his neatly styled hair and imperturbable countenance. “You know…I meant to tell you,” he panted, “I-I’ve nearly finished….m-my section of our paper.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Dr. Whitcraft watched the business at hand over his spectacles.

  “Indeed…should…should…have it ready in a day or so.”

  “That’s splendid. The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.” Dr. Whitcraft arched himself over the table on the tips of his toes for a better view. “I’ve decided to expand my practice and will be buying a house, so my article being published just now would be perfect timing.”

  “Expanding your practice, eh? Whew. That femur is tricky…you want to give it a go? My arm is about finished.” His shoulders dropped in exhaustion.

  “Oh, why yes. Please.” Dr. Whitcraft exchanged places with him again and took hold of the saw, but the table began suddenly to sway.

  “Oh dear, he’s coming round, isn’t he?” Dr. Whitcraft noticed the patient had begun to moan and roll his head side to si
de. “I’ll try to hurry it up, then.”

  Mr. Twitchel’s eyes snapped open. After an initial moment of confusion, he lifted his head, shrieked and threw himself against his bindings in a wild panic. The dressers dashed over, each using their entire weight to hold Mr. Twitchel in place. Dr. Whitcraft quickened the pace of his labors. Dr. Marplot leaned over reassuringly. “Don’t worry, old fellow,” he shouted, “we’re just about there.”

  “One more should do it,” Dr. Whitcraft gasped. “Ah, there we are.”

  “Well done!” Dr. Marplot swooped his lower leg off of the table and proudly carried it toward Dr. Whitcraft, like a midwife presenting a newborn to its mother. The patient’s eyes rolled and his mouth opened wide as he dropped back lifelessly on to the table.

  “Merciful thing, that.” Dr. Marplot gestured at the patient with his chin.

  “Quite,” Dr. Whitcraft agreed, breathing heavily as he cast the saw aside and turned his attention to the oozing arteries.

  “Why, what a perfect reef knot. Well done, Dr. Whitcraft.”

  “How kind of you. I’m out of practice.”

  “Nonsense! Would you care to examine this leg with me, doctor? It has an extraordinary buildup of necrosis that I believe is very rare on the living—”

  “Of course. I’m surprised you asked.”

  “Nurse, come along now,” Dr. Marplot called in a silly singsong as he walked the leg to a waiting table off to the side. “Let’s tidy this up. Mr. Smittlish and Mr. Flepper, you too, boys…”

  “Oh, you know, don’t say anything about that house business.” Dr. Whitcraft grabbed a lancet and hurriedly caught up to his colleague. “It will be a wedding present for Miss Reave. I want it to be a surprise.”

  “Isn’t that the most charming thing I have ever heard?” The leg landed on the examining table with a heavy thud.