‘I am draining out poisoned blood,’ he explained, seeing Chaloner looking at it. ‘It was bitten by a green parrot, you see, and it is well known among the more educated men of my trade that they are the most dangerous kind. No man wants to be savaged by a green parrot.’
‘If you drain the bad blood by holding your finger aloft, then surely the toxins will flood into your arm,’ said Chaloner, puzzled. ‘And then into the rest of your body.’
‘Yes, but that is what livers are for,’ declared Johnson. Even Reynell frowned his surprise at this particular piece of information. ‘They attract dirty blood and convert it to pellets that are then expelled in vomit. I shall take a purge later and will be cured tomorrow.’
Chaloner was glad it had not been Johnson who had answered the summons to tend him the day before. ‘How did you come to be pecked in the first place?’ he asked.
‘I was attending a lady, who was racked by a fit of violent sneezing. I immediately ascertained that this was being caused by a crucifix on her wall. As I was removing the offending object, the bird landed on my hat, and I was injured in the ensuing struggle.’
‘Do you physic many White Hall courtiers?’ Chaloner asked politely, feeling some sort of response was required,
but declining to address Johnson’s bizarre diagnosis.
‘Dozens,’ bragged Johnson. ‘I am far more popular than that scoundrel Wiseman, because I do not regard patients as subjects for wild experiments.’
‘I can see why that would have an appeal,’ agreed Chaloner.
‘Some people even prefer me to Lisle,’ Johnson went on. ‘Despite the fact that he is much loved in London. The problem with Lisle is that he is a bit too free with the truth. Who wants to know he is going to die? It is better to tell a man he is going to get better. Also, patients tend to be more generous with the fees when you give them good news, so there is always that to consider, too.’
‘The Earl of Clarendon,’ said Chaloner innocently. ‘Have you ever tended him? In his offices?’
Johnson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Certainly not! He has set himself against poor Bristol, you know. I like Bristol, because he got me my Court post. He and I are going to invent a revolutionary new chewing machine for men with no teeth. It will make us a good deal of money.’
The clerk looked concerned. ‘We are already rich, so should not draw attention to ourselves with odd inventions – we do not want a reputation like Wiseman’s. It is better to maintain a low profile.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.
Reynell’s expression was unreadable. ‘Once people know you, they start to pry into matters that are none of their concern. Fame is not a desirable condition.’
‘Piffle,’ countered Johnson. He turned to the spy. ‘We were talking about me and my battle with the Devil’s familiar.’
‘Clarendon?’
‘The parrot,’ said Johnson impatiently. Chaloner regarded him coolly. He liked birds, but he had not taken to Johnson; if the surgeon had done anything unsporting, he was ready to extract revenge on the creature’s behalf. ‘After our tussle, it flew out of the window. The last I heard was that it has made friends with the Bishop of London, and refuses to leave his shoulder. Since it raced to save that crucifix, I can only conclude that the bishop is also of the Roman persuasion, and that the parrot has recognised one of its own – an agent of Satan.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, wondering what it was about religion that turned men into drooling fanatics. He addressed Reynell, keen to change the subject. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘Long enough,’ replied Reynell cagily. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Chaloner did not want to know; he was just making conversation. He tried again, ‘I have never been here before, but I understand your Anatomical Theatre was designed by Inigo Jones.’
‘Jones was an architect,’ announced Johnson, as if he imagined Chaloner was a half-wit. ‘He threw up the Banqueting House, and … and a few other places, too. We asked him to do us a new Anatomical Theatre because the public kept looking through the windows of the old one, wanting to know what we were up to. So, Jones built us one with windows that are unreachable by nosy ghouls.’
‘Would you like to see it?’ asked Reynell.
Chaloner was not seized with any particular desire to inspect a place where corpses were dismembered, but he had raised the subject and felt he had no choice but to accept. He followed them towards an oval building, inside of which were four tiers of cedar-wood seats, placed so every spectator would have an unimpeded view of the large dissecting table in the centre of the room. The walls were graced with statues of the Seven Liberal Sciences, and for some inexplicable reason, the signs of the zodiac were painted above them. Dominating all was a painting by Hans Holbein, depicting King Henry VIII handing the barbers and the surgeons the warrant that made them an official city guild.
The spy was disconcerted to see the table occupied by a cadaver, because Wiseman had told him Public Anatomies only took place four times a year. The body was covered by a sheet, but a pair of yellow feet protruded from the bottom. There was a faint pink stain over the area of the heart, and Chaloner was not sure why, but he was suddenly seized by the absolute conviction that the corpse belonged to Fitz-Simons, shot in the chest by May. He moved closer, wanting to know for certain.
‘My speciality is pumping wax into a corpse’s veins,’ announced Johnson, flicking up the sheet to reveal two plump, greyish legs. The major blood vessels in the groin had been exposed, and one partially removed, so it could be attached to a bowl by means of a pipe. Chaloner also noticed grazes on the corpse’s knees, as if the man had fallen as he had died. ‘For the demonstration of the venous system. It is a skilled business, and you will not be surprised to learn that I am extremely good at it.’
Chaloner nodded. He was not particularly squeamish, but there was something about the cold, dispassionate treatment of the body in Chyrurgeons’ Hall that unsettled him. Surreptitiously, he edged towards the sheet, intending to tweak it off ‘by accident’, then take his leave as soon as he had his answer.
‘Stand back,’ ordered Johnson. ‘Bodies are delicate, not to be pawed by non-members.’
‘I will not touch it, I assure you,’ said Chaloner fervently, wondering what sort of ‘pawing’ was enjoyed by the elite who were members.
Johnson raised a cynical eyebrow, apparently of the belief that onlookers would be unable to help themselves.
‘Laymen can be very salacious,’ explained Reynell. He started to sniff. ‘Does this room smell? I have been among the odours of the trade for so long that I can no longer tell.’
Chaloner nodded. The corpse stank and, since he assumed it was being prepared for the Public Anatomy the following Saturday, he was glad he would not be around when the demonstration started; by then, it would be overpowering to the point of noxious. He was surprised Fitz-Simons had grown rank so quickly, and wondered if he had been left in a warm place. ‘I doubt surgeons will mind,’ he said. ‘They must be used to it.’
‘We are not concerned about surgeons,’ said Johnson. ‘This particular anatomy is to be private.’
Chaloner regarded him blankly, but Johnson did not seem to think the statement required further clarification, and turned back to his charge, covering the legs with the sheet and patting it tight around the edges in a macabre parody of tucking someone into bed. It was Reynell who explained.
‘We perform two types of anatomy: private and public. The latter are major events, and Company members are permitted to invite guests. Afterwards, because it is a well-known medical fact that watching dissections makes men hungry, we have dinner together with plenty of wine. It is always very jolly.’
‘Jolly?’ Chaloner was not sure he would feel ‘jolly’ after enduring such a spectacle.
Reynell nodded keenly. ‘There are four Public Anatomies a year, and we are assigned executed felons for that express purpose. Of course, it is not always easy to lay claim to
them, because sometimes the families get there first. Or the spectators at the scaffold.’
‘Witches try to steal the fingers,’ elaborated Johnson. ‘And the ears, and sometimes the—’
‘We also perform Private Anatomies,’ Reynell went on. ‘Often, a surgeon may want to demonstrate some aspect of physiology to students, or perhaps test a novel theory. In addition, we conduct Private Anatomies for interested amateurs, because the founding of the Royal Society has precipitated an insatiable demand for scientific learning. This body is for a Private Anatomy, which will be this afternoon.’
‘On a Sunday?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Is that allowed?’
‘We have special dispensation, on the grounds that sometimes corpses cannot wait,’ said Reynell darkly. ‘However, all these new religious laws may mean a curtailing of our activities in the future. We shall go the way of the Puritans, and all Sabbath-day pleasure will be banned.’
‘Dissections come under the definition of “pleasure” do they?’ asked Chaloner, amused.
Reynell nodded fervently. ‘People enjoy them very much. You should tell Wiseman to invite you next Saturday. You will not believe the fabulous time you will have. And, as for the dinner afterwards … well, suffice to say there are already three bullocks hanging in the kitchens.’
Chaloner thought it astonishing that people would want to eat after seeing entrails brandished about. Surgeons he could understand, but he was not sure he would be ready to devour red meat after watching some hapless villain ruthlessly sliced to pieces.
‘Did Surgeon Fitz-Simons ever hold Private Anatomies?’ he asked.
A furtive look was exchanged. ‘Why do you ask about him?’ demanded Johnson curtly.
Chaloner shrugged, and pretended not to notice the hostility. ‘I met him once, that is all.’
Johnson ushered him towards the door in a way that was only just polite. ‘I have work to do.’
Chaloner was relieved to be outside, despite the fact that he had failed to confirm whether the corpse was Fitz-Simons. He took a deep breath of relatively untainted air, thinking wistfully of the sweet scent of Thurloe’s garden. Meanwhile, Johnson and Reynell were engaged in a low-voiced debate, but when Chaloner took a few steps towards them, the clerk grabbed the surgeon’s arm and pulled him away. Chaloner was puzzled: Reynell had not been odd before the question about Fitz-Simons.
He was not left alone for long before a familiar figure approached. It was Lisle, his brown, wrinkled face creased into a smile. ‘Mr Heyden,’ he said pleasantly. ‘The Earl of Clarendon’s friend.’
Chaloner gestured to Johnson. ‘I may not be welcome here if you tell him that.’
Lisle laughed. ‘Johnson is a man who sees life in extremes – you are either in Bristol’s camp or you are an agent of the Devil. Wiseman is much the same in his defence of Clarendon. Personally, I prefer not to become involved in squabbles that are none of my business.’
‘Where is African House?’ asked Chaloner, deciding to learn whether Lisle was the surgeon Scot said had attended the Guinea Company dinner. ‘I have been ordered to represent Lord Clarendon at a function there, but I am a stranger to London, and have no idea how to find it.’
‘Behind Throgmorton Street,’ replied Lisle promptly. ‘As Master of the barber-surgeons, I am often invited to the dinners of other guilds, and those held by the Guinea Company are among the best. They are good men.’
‘I was under the impression that some condone slavery. That does not make them “good men”.’
‘The government would disagree – it has issued charters for the exploration of Africa with a view to expanding trade; this will ultimately include slaves. Wiseman is furious about it, and spends a lot of time lobbying politicians and merchants in an effort to stop it from happening. Personally, I think it is a lost cause, and prefer to donate a day of each week to treating London’s poor, because they are people I can help.’
‘I heard there was an argument at the last Guinea Company dinner, between those who object to slavery and a merchant called Webb.’
‘The dear departed Webb,’ said Lisle with distaste. ‘It is difficult to condemn anyone for arguing with him. I seldom meet a man in whom I can see no redeeming qualities, but Webb was one.’
‘Did he pick a quarrel with you, too?’
Lisle grimaced. ‘He once accused me of overcharging for a treatment. It was untrue, of course.’
‘Of course. Were you at the Guinea Company dinner?’
‘You mean did I see anyone there who was so offended by Webb’s vile presence that they stuck a rapier into his black heart?’ asked Lisle with a wry smile. ‘I imagine there were plenty, but I was not among them. I was invited to the dinner, but the moment my carriage arrived at African House, I received an urgent summons from a patient. I never got inside.’
‘What about your colleagues?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Johnson or Wiseman. Or Fitz-Simons?’
‘Invitations were issued to all, but I cannot tell you who accepted and who declined.’ Lisle’s gaze strayed to the splint on Chaloner’s arm, and his eyes narrowed in sudden anger. ‘Damn it! Wiseman has been practising with different glues again – and after I forbade him, too! You will be lucky to regain the use of your hand once this comes off. He has been experimenting with some exceptionally resilient substances recently, ones I feel endanger a patient’s life.’
‘I thought a blacksmith might—’
‘No!’ cried Lisle. ‘His splints set extremely hard, and you may find yourself seriously maimed if you let an amateur at it. It is a task only a surgeon can perform.’
His vehemence was making Chaloner uneasy. ‘Wiseman intends to leave it in place for a month, but I shall need two good hands long before that.’
Lisle patted his shoulder. ‘I can help you there, but not yet. I have learned from experience that Wiseman’s glues begin to dissolve after a few days, which makes them easier for the professional man to remove. Next Saturday would be a good time. Come to me then, but do not tell Wiseman – he will certainly object to me “poaching” a patient.’
‘Next Saturday?’ asked Chaloner, aghast. ‘I cannot wait until then!’
‘It is the best I can do, now the adhesive has been applied. Do not be too distressed. Miracles happen every day, and perhaps your hand will recover in time.’
‘But there is nothing wrong with it,’ cried Chaloner, deciding it was the last time he would ever let a surgeon loose on him, just for an opportunity to ask questions.
‘Wiseman misdiagnosed?’ Lisle was thoughtful. ‘Yes, he might have done. He believes himself infallible, which is a sure way to make mistakes. But we shall put all to rights next week, so do not fret. And in the future, you will know to be more selective about your surgeons. We are not all the same.’
Chaloner was tempted to leave Chyrurgeons’ Hall while he was still in one piece, but he was angry, and disliked the notion that Wiseman had conducted an unlicensed experiment on him. He decided to stay and confront him about the matter.
‘Lord!’ groaned Lisle suddenly, looking towards the Great Parlour. ‘Wiseman and Johnson have just started one of their spats. I do wish they would not squabble in public – and that it did not fall to me, as Master, to keep the peace between them.’
He hurried away, and Chaloner watched as he inserted himself between the two men. His intervention was not a moment too soon, because Johnson looked as though he was girding himself up to swing a punch. Lisle spoke softly, trying to calm troubled waters, but his colleagues did not seem inclined to be soothed. Their voices carried, and Chaloner heard it was something to do with the dissection that day: Wiseman disapproved, and Johnson was telling him that was too bad. Eventually, Johnson threw up his hands and stalked towards the Anatomical Theatre. The spy eased forward until he reached a doorway, where he could hear what Lisle was saying to Wiseman, but could not be seen.
‘I refuse to have anything to do with it,’ Wiseman was snarling. ‘It is wrong.’
‘But Temple
will expect you – our most celebrated theorist – to do the cutting this afternoon,’ said Lisle gently. ‘If you insult him by refusing, he may not make a donation towards our new library, and our colleagues will call for your dismissal. Think very carefully before you follow this course of action.’
‘I am a surgeon, not a performing monkey,’ raged Wiseman, although he looked very simian that morning, his hulking frame towering over his Master. ‘I do not approve of so many Private Anatomies. Dissections should be for education and research, not for the entertainment of wealthy courtiers.’
‘We live in turbulent times,’ said Lisle reasonably, ‘so we do not have the luxury of such choices. You can decline to cater to your Company’s requests, but it may see you banned from practising surgery. How else will you make a living?’
‘With my splint,’ argued Wiseman. ‘It will make me so rich that I will not be obliged to practise. And Johnson can go to the Devil, because I shall never bow to his demands.’
Lisle sighed. ‘I suppose I will have to make an excuse for your absence – say you have been summoned to White Hall, or some such thing. You will see matters differently tomorrow when your temper has cooled, and you are almost certain to wish you had acted more prudently.’
He walked away, and Chaloner stepped out of his hiding place to intercept Wiseman before he could disappear. The surgeon peered at him.
‘You look thirty years younger without paint and grey hair. Did you hear any of my discussion with Lisle? He is obliged to fabricate tales to cover Johnson’s appalling lack of judgement. Johnson is a serious liability for the Company, and he should be dismissed.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, supposing the large surgeon had chosen to interpret the incident in a way that suited his inflated opinion of himself. ‘How has Johnson misjudged, exactly?’
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