‘What are they?’ she asked, turning the pack around in her liver-spotted hands. She opened the packet and pulled out the contents, then sniffed at them, as though that might give her a clue. ‘Some kind of food?’ she muttered.
‘They’re Sassenach pills,’ said The Doctor.
‘Never heard of ‘em,’ said Mother, scathingly.
‘Neither had I until yesterday. But they can cure the plague.’
Mother stared at him. ‘Could such a thing be possible?’ she asked him.
‘Aye. And I’ve seen the proof.’ He took another swig from his tankard. ‘The good news is that Tom here can get more of them. Hundreds.’
‘I never said anything about hundreds,’ said Tom warily, but The Doctor waved him to silence.
‘He’s friends with the man who invented them. All it needs is a word from him and they’ll be ours.’
Mother’s eyes widened in realisation. ‘But . . . if you have a cure, then that means . . .’
‘Aye, Mother. When I get my hands on those pills, I’ll be the most sought-after man in Edinburgh! We’ll make our fortunes from this. You just see if we don’t.’
‘I thought you were doing pretty well already,’ said Tom, remembering what he had been told by Agnes Chambers. ‘Aren’t you being paid a small fortune to look after the plague victims?’
They both turned to look at Tom in surprise; then the old woman’s mouth curled into a grin, displaying a few rotten stumps of teeth. ‘Hah! He thinks you’re–’
‘Wheesht, woman!’ interrupted The Doctor, giving her a warning glare. Then he turned to Tom. ‘I’ve already told you to keep yer snout out of things that dinnae concern you. What I get paid for an honest day’s work is my business and nobody else’s. Do you understand?’
Tom bowed his head obediently but he was already putting two and two together. It hadn’t felt right since he’d stepped into this place. This wasn’t the big, fancy town house that both Missie Grierson and Cameron had described; what respectable doctor would be content to live in a grubby, rat-trap like this? The more Tom thought about it, the more it made sense. The Doctor never went anywhere without the leather mask and cloak – it could be anybody under there and who’d know? He thought too, about the other coach they’d met on the way here . . . the furtive man handing over a list of names. Maybe at the height of the outbreak there were just too many patients for one doctor to attend to. Maybe the real Doctor Rae was farming cases out to other people . . . or maybe . . . maybe he didn’t even know that this was going on.
Now Tom remembered something else that Cameron had said. When he’d got to The Doctor’s house that night, a man had been waiting for him by the gate. He’d said that The Doctor was out on a call and he’d taken the address of the orphanage and promised that The Doctor would pay a visit the following day. What’s more, when he’d turned up, he’d demanded a tip of ten shillings, something that had come as a complete surprise to Missie Grierson. Now it all seemed so obvious. It was a scam. The real Doctor Rae didn’t have a clue that an imposter was siphoning off some of his cases and charging for his visits.
‘Hurry up and finish your food,’ snapped The Doctor. ‘We have more cases to attend this afternoon and I want to write a letter before we go.’
Tom obediently shoved the last few pieces of gristle into his mouth and chewed automatically. As soon as the last scrap was gone from the plate, Mother whipped it away from him and took it across the kitchen to stack with a pile of other unwashed dishes.
‘Right,’ said The Doctor, rubbing his greasy hands together. ‘Mother, fetch writing materials. Tom and I have a letter to compose.’
The old woman hobbled away and returned after a while with a tray that contained, amongst other things, a quill pen, ink and sheets of thick, yellow paper. Tom noticed that there was also a lit candle in what looked like a gold holder, a touch that seemed oddly out of place in this setting. There was also a short stick of something red that looked like a child’s crayon. The Doctor selected a sheet of paper and set it out in front of Tom on the grubby table.
‘You write, I’ll dictate,’ he said.
Tom glanced at him, slyly. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if the letter came from you?’ he asked.
‘Er . . . no, that’s all right, I’ll just sign it,’ said The Doctor.
‘Why not write it as well?’ persisted Tom. ‘I’m sure a clever man like you would do a better job than I could.’
The Doctor looked irritated. ‘I’ve already told you I have problems with my eyes,’ he snapped. ‘You write it and I’ll sign my name to it.’
He can’t write, thought Tom. He’s no more a doctor than I am! But he dipped the quill pen into the pot of ink and prepared to do as he was told. First, The Doctor instructed him to write an address at the top of the page. Tom did the best he could with the unfamiliar quill, wishing he’d had a biro in his pocket when he’d arrived here. He managed to achieve a halting, splodgy scrawl as The Doctor dictated.
‘Dear Doctor Wikepedia . . .’
‘Dear Doctor Wildebeest,’ wrote Tom. He paused for a moment, to see if The Doctor had noticed anything amiss but, though the man was watching intently as he wrote, he seemed perfectly happy with the results. Tom smiled and continued to write as The Doctor dictated, making more and more significant changes as he went on.
Dear Doctor Wildebeest,
Forgive me for writing to you in this unseemly spanner, but it has come to my detention that you may be unstable to resist me. I am Doctor George Rae, Plague Dentist and prominent sturgeon of Edinburgh. We have in our silly at this time, a most vile and headful contagion, which grows longer by the day.
Your good spend, Tom Afflick, has brought to my detention your wonderful Sausage-Pills, which have already elected a most incredible curse on a young victim of the plate. Young Tom has insured me that you would be spilling to supply me with a large quantity of these poles, which I would of course, use for the good of my patience and would ensure that they are distributed swiftly and unfairly to those moist in need of them.
I would therefore entreat you to spend at your murkiest lollipop-tunity as many sausage-pills as you can seasonably spare, in the sure and certain porridge that I, Doctor George Rae, will use them to line my own pockets.
I remain your demented serpent,
Doctor George Rae.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Tom innocently, handing over the sheet of paper – and The Doctor pretended to scan the page for mistakes.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. He took the quill from Tom’s hand and signed the letter with a flourish. Then he dried it with a blotter, folded it and turned it over. ‘Write the doctor’s address there,’ he instructed, pointing.
Tom obediently wrote an address, incorporating one of the first jokes he had ever heard.
‘Doctor Bob Wildebeest,
999 Letsby Avenue,
Manchester.’
‘Excellent.’ The Doctor picked up the red stick and held it in the flame of the candle, melting the end until a large gobbet fell onto the edges of the folded paper. As a final measure, he pressed the face of a signet ring on his third finger into the wax, leaving the impression of an eagle’s head. ‘There now,’ he said.
He handed the envelope to his mother, who had been watching the proceedings in silence. ‘Take this to the post-boy and bid him deliver it with all haste,’ he told her. ‘Tell him he’s not to spare his horse. And whoever takes the letter to its final destination must wait for a reply before returning.’ He pressed a coin into her hand. ‘Give him this for his troubles,’ he added.
Mother grimaced. ‘A shilling? We can’t afford to be handing out that kind of money,’ she grumbled.
‘It’ll be worth it,’ he assured her. ‘There’s civil war in England, they won’t take the letter without something to put in their purse. Trust me. Up till now we’ve only been earning scraps. The contents of that letter will buy us the means to make a thousand shillings.’
I woul
dn’t hold your breath, thought Tom, with grim satisfaction.
Mother muttered something but turned and hobbled away across the room. The Doctor smiled and turned back to look at Tom. ‘She’s never understood,’ he said. ‘A man has to speculate to accumulate.’ He got to his feet. ‘And now we’re ready to go back to work,’ he said. He picked up the packet of pills and tapped them against the knuckles of one hand. ‘And I think I have just the person for these little beauties,’ he added. ‘Come on, boy, don’t sit there gawping at me. Time’s a wasting and there’s money to be earned!’
Tom was in the cramped interior of the carriage again, The Doctor dressed in his leather cape, as the vehicle rocked and swayed through the crowded city streets. Tom had heard The Doctor tell the coach driver that they were going to the home of Lord Kelvin, a name Tom remembered from the list given to them by the man in the other carriage and, for some reason he couldn’t quite remember, a name he had seen or heard somewhere else. But first, they had stopped outside the tavern called The Four Talons, where they had collected the brazier-man, who Tom now learned was called Douglas. He was still carrying the hot brazier and had perched himself, and it, on a little shelf that stuck out from the back of the coach, where he seemed more than happy to travel.
The coach took a right turn and, after a short while, it left the crowded streets behind and moved along roads flanked by trees and fields. Peering out of the window, Tom could see a huge building ahead of them; a mansion built of grey stone and set within its own grounds.
The Doctor shook his head. ‘Who would have thought that the contagion could have found its way out to this charming place?’ he murmured. He lifted the leather helmet and lowered it carefully over his face. ‘You will announce me,’ he told Tom, his muffled voice back to its familiar croak.
The carriage rattled along a gravelled drive and passed through some high, stone gates. As it pulled to a halt in front of the house, the front door opened and a woman hurried out to meet them. She was wearing a frilly hat and apron, rather like the ones worn by Agnes Chambers back at Mary King’s Close.
As Tom climbed down from the carriage, he noticed that each of the huge windows overlooking the drive had a white sheet draped in it. The Doctor alighted too and Douglas climbed down from the back of the coach and grabbed the slumbering brazier. The woman curtsied respectfully as they approached, and waited for somebody to speak. Tom stepped forward, trying to remember the words that Joshua had used before.
‘Er . . . I am Tom . . . assistant to Doctor Rae,’ he said.
The woman bowed her head. ‘If you will follow me, gentlemen, the master of the house is waiting to talk to you,’ she said.
‘Delighted,’ said The Doctor.
They followed the woman up a flight of white marble steps and in through huge wooden doors. They found themselves in an opulent hallway, tiled in white marble. The velvet papered walls were hung with massive oil paintings and gilt mirrors. The woman turned back to look at them and Tom tried to remember what Joshua had said next.
‘Umm . . . where’s the . . . victim?’ he asked, but then noticed that the woman was bowing her head as somebody else came into the hallway. Tom turned his head and stared. Coming towards him was a man wearing a white powdered wig and a fancy gold jacket. As he came nearer, he nodded to Tom and forced a smile, revealing a mouthful of rotten green teeth.
Sixteen
‘You!’ gasped Tom. He couldn’t help himself. It was the third time he’d seen the man. The first had been when he’d just arrived on Mary King’s Close, the man had been grinning out at him from the open window of the carriage that had almost knocked Tom down. The second time, weirdly, he’d been standing in the kitchen of Wagamama’s in Manchester, looking really out of place. Now here he was again, thin, anxious and, judging by his fine clothes, a very rich man.
He took a step back when Tom spoke, a look of alarm on his face. Then he looked to The Doctor as though seeking some kind of explanation.
‘Mind your manners, whelp,’ snarled The Doctor and brought the end of his cane down across Tom’s shoulders with a force that nearly knocked him to the floor. Tom winced and stepped back, his back stinging. The Doctor moved closer to the newcomer and bowed his masked head respectfully. ‘Lord Kelvin,’ he said, in that familiar muffled croak. ‘An honour and a privilege, Sir. I came as soon as I had word of your terrible predicament.’
Lord Kelvin waved a white handkerchief. ‘Let us not stand on ceremony,’ he said, in a slow, cultured voice. ‘And let’s have no more unpleasantness, please. I’m already living on my nerves.’ It was hard to tell how old he was. His voice seemed somehow like that of an elderly man, but the painted face could have belonged to somebody in his thirties.
‘I understand,’ murmured The Doctor. ‘I believe it’s a child that has been stricken with the contagion.’
Lord Kelvin nodded. ‘My granddaughter, Annie: eight years old and the apple of her late mother’s eye. Her father is away in the wars across the border and I’m a widower myself. Annie is all I have in the world.’
Annie! thought Tom. But he was quite sure this couldn’t be the fabled ghost of Mary King’s Close, not living here in this fancy residence. A coincidence, he supposed.
‘Your daughter was also a victim?’ asked The Doctor.
‘Yes, but not of the plague,’ said Lord Kelvin. ‘Consumption took her. She died but two months ago.’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘A sad story, my Lord, yet one I hear so often. When did the child first become ill?’
‘Her maid tells me the sickness fell on her yesterday afternoon. It seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute she was running across the lawn, full of mischief . . . the next she was complaining of a headache and then the vomiting started.’ Lord Kelvin shook his head. He stepped closer and took The Doctor’s gloved hands in his own. ‘You must help her, Doctor Rae. With all that’s happened recently, I couldn’t bear to lose Annie as well.’
‘Rest assured, I will do everything in my power,’ said The Doctor, and Tom almost laughed out loud at the false sincerity in his muffled voice. ‘But before we go up to see her, there’s something that I must broach.’
‘Name it,’ said Lord Kelvin.
‘It’s just the trifling matter of my attendance money. It’s customary to tip the doctor twenty shillings . . .’
Tom glanced at him in surprise. His fee seemed to have doubled since his last visit. Obviously he tailored it to suit each customer.
‘That’s of no consequence.’ Lord Kelvin muttered quick instructions to the maid, who curtsied and hurried away. ‘Flora will have the money ready for you when you leave,’ he said.
‘Thank you. One hates to ask, but my expenses are very high . . .’
‘Please, don’t even think about it.’
‘Well, in that case, perhaps you’d be good enough to show us to the patient?’
‘Of course. If you will follow me, gentlemen.’
Lord Kelvin led the way up the wide marble staircase and Tom, The Doctor and Douglas, still holding the smouldering brazier in his gloved hands, went up behind him, staring in awe at their surroundings – walls festooned with rich tapestries, great glittering candelabra hanging from the ceiling. It was a far cry from Mary King’s Close and Tom couldn’t help himself. He had to ask.
‘What do you do?’ he asked Lord Kelvin.
‘Do?’
‘For a living, I mean. You’re obviously pretty well off.’
‘Shut your mouth, you impudent cub,’ snarled The Doctor. ‘What did I tell you about minding your manners?’
‘That’s quite all right,’ said Lord Kelvin, holding up a hand. ‘The boy’s only being curious and I find his frankness refreshing.’ He smiled his rotten smile at Tom. ‘I don’t really do anything,’ he said. ‘I mean, I don’t work. I inherited my wealth. My father owned woollen mills and, when he died, their ownership passed to me. Once in a while I have to go and shake hands with the workers, but that’s a tiresome busin
ess, so I do it as little as possible. For the rest of the time, I read and I ride horses and I paint a little, landscapes mostly, though I’ve no real talent for it. And in the season, of course, I go to parties.’
‘That’s it?’ cried Tom. ‘You get paid to read and go to parties?’
‘Well, I suppose I’m lucky in that I am not required to work for my daily bread.’ He looked at Tom with interest. ‘And how, pray, does a young lad like you end up as assistant to such an eminent physician?’
‘Oh . . . I just kind of fell into it,’ said Tom.
They had reached the top of the stairs and now Lord Kelvin was pushing open a huge mahogany door. They stepped into a room. Tom thought about the dirty, empty bedroom in which he had found Alison and gazed around in wonder. This room was opulent, to say the least, papered in bright colours and furnished with pieces of expensive-looking furniture: a dressing table, a wardrobe and a huge gilt-framed mirror. A fine rocking horse stood off to one side, poised mid leap, its painted eyes wild, its teeth bared. At the top of the room was a huge four-poster bed, the uprights intricately carved and hung with richly embroidered drapes. They moved closer and now they could see a little girl lying in the bed, dwarfed by its size. She looked like a doll, her pale face staring at the ceiling, her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, arms stretched to either side. She looked very weak.
‘Annie, my angel, here’s the doctor come to visit you,’ crooned Lord Kelvin. ‘He’s come to see about making you better.’
Annie’s blue eyes took in the approaching figure in its leather cape and birdlike hood and an expression of sheer terror came to her face.
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