His fear was all the more unsettling for being an unfamiliar sensation in entirely familiar surroundings. These streets had been his home for almost seven years: he well knew their dangers but that was not the same as being afraid. He had never felt scared here before.
Raven had first come here at the age of thirteen, when he was enrolled in George Heriot’s, a school ‘for poor fatherless boys’. It was an educational opportunity that would previously have been far beyond his means, an unforeseen consolation accruing from the tragedy that had otherwise so reduced his family’s circumstances. The significance was not lost on Raven that dying was the most substantial contribution his father ever made towards providing him with a future.
He recalled how tentative his early ventures out to the surrounding neighbourhood had been, haunted by the stories the older boys told to frighten their juniors. But Raven had always been drawn to explore that which he feared, not to mention that which might seem forbidden. By the time he was a student at the university (the requisite fees extracted with difficulty from and following prolonged negotiation with his parsimonious uncle) he felt like a native of the Old Town, if not entirely at home there.
Up ahead, the sanctuary of the university’s courtyard beckoned him in the murk. He felt he would be safe within its walls, particularly as it was daylight; or daytime, at least. The whole city remained shrouded in a choking fog that refused to lift though it was already after noon.
From the moment he crossed the North Bridge, he had been looking over his shoulder for the Weasel and Gargantua, though together with Peg, these were the only associates of Flint that he even knew to be on the lookout for. Gargantua at least he should be able to see coming, perhaps the most conspicuous creature in Edinburgh. What gruesome disorder had blighted the fellow? Given the nature of their only encounter, Raven was disinclined to be sympathetic towards the monster’s plight, but as a medical man he recognised that the man was surely afflicted. He wasn’t merely large: parts of him had kept growing when they ought to have stopped, and that didn’t augur well for his prospects. Unfortunately he was unlikely to die soon enough to save Raven, and even then Flint would not be short of a replacement.
He had tried to steady himself by considering his situation rationally. It had only been a matter of days since the Weasel braced him: surely they wouldn’t expect his financial situation to have sufficiently improved as to be able to redeem the debt? But then he realised that making rational assumptions was a dangerous mistake. He had to stop thinking of them as reasonable people. They were demanding he got them their money by any means necessary, under the threat of mutilation. It wouldn’t stop with an eye, either.
Meanwhile, the longer he went without seeing them, the more they would expect him to pay when they caught up to him again.
The archway to the courtyard was mere yards away, and Raven’s stride grew apace the closer he got. His view was fixed upon it, eyes dead ahead, when he heard someone call his name.
A shudder ran through him. More than a shudder, for a shudder passes quickly. It was a tremor, accompanied by the threat of tears and a sharp twinge in his cheek as though he could feel the slice of Weasel’s blade again. It happened every time he was startled, whether by a sudden noise or a phantom in the dark as he waited for sleep. It had even happened at dinner two nights ago, when Simpson raised a carving knife and the gleam of the blade caught his eye.
He came close to breaking into a sprint, before the voice resumed and he was able to recognise it.
‘Slow down, man. You’re walking like the wolves are at your back.’
It was Henry, jogging to catch up, and Raven was able to disguise his relief as pleasure.
‘We New Town residents walk as quickly as we can through the poorer districts, don’t you know.’
‘I don’t doubt it. How are you finding the estimable Professor Simpson and his household?’
‘I’m not sure what I expected, but I can say that it wasn’t what I found. It’s a menagerie, Henry. Dogs, children, chaotic clinics. I may need some time to adjust.’
‘And what of colleagues?’
‘There is a Dr George Keith, who lives nearby. He is a decent sort. And there is a James Duncan, who if he was made of chocolate would surely eat himself, were his appetites not so abstemious.’
‘James Duncan? I think I may have encountered him. Studied here, and at Aberdeen before that? An uncommonly young graduate?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yes. Gifted of mind but an altogether odd creature. Set upon an ostensibly humanitarian undertaking and yet giving off as much warmth as a dying penguin’s last fart.’
‘Sadly not unique among our peers. Impeccable in his conduct but a singularly joyless soul.’
‘Never trust a man who has no apparent vices. The concealed ones are apt to be disgusting. And what of the staff at Queen Street? Any pretty housemaids to delight your eye?’
The image of Sarah leapt unbidden into his head, but whether she delighted his eye was moot, because he could not picture her without reliving the incident at his first clinic. The very thought of her made Raven feel awkward and embarrassed. For all his years of diligent study, a mere girl had been able to make him feel like he had learned nothing of practical worth. That she was worldly and he a schoolboy.
‘Unfortunately not,’ he said, hoping that Henry read nothing in his expression that encouraged him to press the subject.
Henry’s scrutinising eye was upon him, but fortunately focused on something more superficial.
‘Your swelling is going down nicely,’ he remarked, words that put Sarah right back into Raven’s mind. He had to get off the subject.
‘Evidence of a deft hand,’ he said. ‘So what business occupies those deft hands today?’
Henry’s gaze returned to the courtyard widening before them, students traversing the flagstones in all directions, flitting in and out of vision like ghosts in this stubborn fog.
‘I am in search of a butcher,’ he replied.
‘Then I may be able to assist, now that I am widening my circle of acquaintance. Mrs Lyndsay, the Simpsons’ cook, buys her meat from Hardie’s, on Cockburn Street. He would have to be a fine butcher, as her standards are exacting.’
‘I am not looking for a fine butcher. I am looking for an unconscionable one.’
Henry had a singularity about his expression, his thoughts finely focused.
‘You recall that death from peritonitis that was so vexing Professor Syme? When we carried out the post-mortem we discovered that her uterus had been perforated, as had a loop of small intestine.’
‘A butcher indeed,’ Raven said.
‘She wasn’t the last, either. We’ve had another case since, also fatal. Similar injuries.’
‘Have the authorities been informed?’
‘Yes, but they won’t act. No one is going to admit that they know anything about it, and more importantly it hasn’t affected the right class of people. You know how it is. There’s no way of knowing for sure it’s the same culprit, but I fear somebody has set up to trade.’
‘An amateur?’ Raven asked.
‘Impossible to be sure. It’s certainly not the worst I’ve seen in my time.’
‘When it comes to this, nobody truly knows what they’re doing,’ Raven stated. ‘But nonetheless, a level of medical knowledge is necessary to even know where to begin.’
‘I wouldn’t speak those words too loudly, my friend, and nor would I wish to be the first to suggest adding it to the curriculum. But you speak the truth. It is disappointing to think of someone offering what they know to be literally a stab in the dark, butchering women in their greed for fast cash.’
Raven thought of Weasel’s blade and understood how quickly one’s ethics might be abandoned given a powerful enough motivation.
‘We can only hope that his technique improves quickly,’ he suggested. ‘Else these two won’t be his last victims.’
‘Can we say for certain it is
a he?’ Henry asked.
‘I suppose not,’ Raven admitted. ‘There are always unscrupulous midwives ready with a sharp knitting needle if the price is right, and I have heard it suggested that women feel easier about approaching someone of their own sex when soliciting such illicit services.’
‘Not merely for illicit services,’ Henry replied. ‘I have heard tell that there is a French midwife working in the city, eagerly sought after by ladies who would rather not be treated by a man.’
Raven thought of the needless encumbrance of the bedsheets that prevented him and Dr Simpson seeing what they were doing. He wondered if the preservation of modesty was less of an issue when the practitioner was female.
‘French, you say?’
‘A graduate of the Hôtel Dieu, no less, if the accounts are to be believed.’
‘Then you don’t need to worry about her being this butcher,’ Raven said. ‘A graduate of the Hôtel Dieu would know well enough what she was about.’
‘Then perhaps it’s not I who ought to worry about her. You’re the one she’s competing with.’
‘I’ll start worrying when they start training women to be doctors.’
Henry laughed.
‘So who were they?’ Raven asked. ‘The victims?’
‘One of them was a tavern maid, the other a prostitute.’
Another deid hoor, Raven thought.
‘We don’t get fine ladies washing up at the Infirmary,’ Henry went on. ‘The quality can afford a home visit from the likes of Dr Simpson.’
‘I don’t believe this is a service that he offers,’ Raven said, though it struck him that he had no means of knowing.
‘No, and nor was that what I was suggesting. Though I sometimes wonder what they do over in the New Town when there is an inconvenient issue.’
‘They simply have the babies,’ Raven supposed, thinking of the household staff commanded by Mrs Simpson, reputedly modest by some standards. ‘Then pass them off to nurses and nannies. It is always different when there is money. These young women must resort to desperate measures because they feel they have no alternative.’
Henry nodded solemnly, slowing his stride as they reached the entrance where their routes would diverge.
‘More desperate than anyone might believe,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’m told an infant’s leg was found in a gutter by a scavenger rooting in an alley near the Royal Exchange. The authorities are looking into that one, at least.’
As they parted ways, Raven was left with a profound sense of sadness over the fates of these women, though he had not known them, nor even seen them. He knew that it was down to a sense of guilt over Evie, whose death scene he had run from like he had something to hide.
Raven wondered what he might have missed. Had he been so startled by the discovery that she was dead and the danger of being found in there with the body that he hadn’t looked properly – hadn’t seen things he might otherwise have noticed?
Though Flint’s men were on the prowl, he knew he had no choice. He would have to go back.
Eleven
The waiting rooms always filled up quickest on a Monday morning, there being no clinic on the Sabbath. Sarah took a moment to catch her breath and rapidly assessed the assembly: old and young, male and female; a chest infection here, a fever there; swellings, rashes, sweats, shivers. There was a general, low hubbub of muted conversation, punctuated at irregular intervals by spluttering coughs and ill-contained sneezes.
One young woman sat with a small child on her knee, his cheeks lividly flushed and two rivulets of greenish mucus escaping from his nostrils to form a small lake on his top lip. He appeared far from content with his circumstances and Sarah knew the threat of voluble crying was never far away. However, his mother proved herself resourceful in having come equipped with a means of soothing her fractious charge. Every now and then her hand would disappear into a pocket and then emerge with a small piece of confectionary, which would be popped between his lips to buy a few more minutes of silence.
Sarah watched this from her position at the door and groaned inwardly at the thought of the threads of stickiness his little fingers were likely to leave behind. There was also a trail of muddy footprints leading from the door to the fireplace. As much as she enjoyed helping out at the doctor’s clinic, the daily congregation of patients fairly added to her workload.
She noticed that the fire was beginning to die down, so she crossed the room, knelt down at the grate and shovelled in some more coal. As she poked at the fire, Will Raven emerged from his consulting room. He took a moment to spot her, crouched by the hearth, but she knew he would not proceed until he had her attention. She stood up and indicated a man cradling his right hand, which was wrapped in a particularly grotty cloth. Sarah had no inkling what was beneath it, but the smell had made it a priority, and not merely because the source might prove serious.
Sarah watched Raven lead the man away, still holding his forearm as though bearing a dead weight. She remained unsure quite what to make of the professor’s new student apprentice. He lacked the confidence and self-assurance she was used to in the gentlemen who called to the house, and even allowing for his comparative youth, Raven’s manner was in marked contrast to that of his predecessor, Thomas Keith. Dr Keith’s younger brother had seemed altogether more comfortable in his position, although she ought to consider that when Thomas first arrived, Sarah was new too, and not merely to the household, but to her job.
She had the impression Raven was out of practice in dealing with domestic staff, most likely resultant of his time spent in lodgings whilst attending the university. This perhaps also accounted for the fact that he seemed rather thin and not nearly as well-nourished as she would have expected. Sarah had heard tell of how driven young men could become obsessive in the pursuit of their studies, and consequently neglectful of their worldly needs. This struck her as ironic in one studying medicine, training to look after bodily health, but for Raven to have secured such a coveted position with the professor, she supposed he might have been just so single-minded.
If there was one thing she had to give him credit for, it was that he was always kind and solicitous towards the patients, listening attentively and never talking down to them. Once again, it might seem ironic that such a trait should be remarkable in a supposedly caring profession, but Sarah had come to recognise a particular haughtiness common among medical men. Perhaps Raven hadn’t yet acquired it, or perhaps it was this aspect of his manner that had won him Dr Simpson’s approval.
Sarah occasionally amused herself by dwelling on the notion of herself as a student: what her days would have been like and which subjects she might have liked to study. She had an interest in botany and horticulture, as well as in the traditional healing arts, inherited from her family background. Any time spent in the professor’s study caused her to marvel at all of the myriad disciplines and fields of knowledge one might explore, and the idea of spending whole years doing precisely that seemed heavenly. However, this was a distraction that came at a price, for although it was pleasant to indulge such fantasies, they also forced her to confront the harsh truth. She had not the means to attend university nor any prospect of ever acquiring them. Being female was also an obstacle that she could not easily overcome.
Mrs Lyndsay told her she would only enjoy contentment once she came to accept her station, but Sarah could not imagine anything quelling this restless want, and nor could she imagine ever feeling a genuine desire to do so. To numb her curiosity would be to cut off a part of herself.
Sarah did not consider it a coincidence that since that conversation, she had been permitted to assist at the morning clinic on fewer occasions. Mrs Lyndsay would assign her extra chores, or find fault with the tasks she had already carried out, and as a result declare she could not be spared. Nor did she consider it a coincidence that the clinics she missed appeared to be even more noisy and disorderly than usual.
From behind her, Sarah heard an explosive bout of coughing, e
nding in a loud and voluminous expectoration which prompted her to hope this individual was in possession of a handkerchief, as those without had been known to spit upon the floor. As she resumed poking at the fire she noticed how red and sore her hands looked, the skin beginning to split across the knuckles. This was a result of the recent cold weather and she hoped that she still had enough of her oatmeal ointment left to treat them, as she had not the time to make another batch.
Climbing once more to her feet, she heard a panic-stricken voice call out: ‘Jamie! What on earth is the matter with you?’
Sarah turned to see the young woman with the catarrhal child grip her son by the arms, shaking him as though he was refusing to heed her instructions. Drawing closer, Sarah could see that the child was frantically struggling against her grasp, his eyes wide with fright. The boy’s growing terror was mirrored in the face of his mother, who began loudly appealing to the room for assistance.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him,’ she squealed, shrill in her desperation. ‘For the love of God, please, someone help him!’
The boy seemed unable to draw breath, his lips turning blue. Sarah could tell that the fight was beginning to drain from him, his movements becoming languid. She looked at his helpless, flailing arm and recalled the sticky fingers that had so recently concerned her. Suddenly, she knew what was wrong.
Sarah grabbed the child from the woman and bent him over her forearm. With her other hand she slapped his back sharply between the shoulder blades: once, twice. On the third attempt, something hit the carpet at her feet, whereupon the boy drew in an enormous breath and then began to cry.
The child’s mother took him back onto her knee to comfort him as Sarah stood motionless, staring at the small, orange, sticky lump that was now firmly imbedded in the pile of the carpet.
The commotion had alerted the rest of the house. Dr Keith and Will Raven were quickly in the room, Dr Simpson arriving at the door moments later.
‘Whatever is the cause of this?’ Raven demanded.
Sarah pointed at the floor.
The Way of All Flesh Page 8